


Be Near Me When My Light Is Low

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Series: Be Near Me [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Healthy Relationships, John Watson Swears a Lot, Male-Female Friendship, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper is a survivor, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Sherlock Holmes, Protective Sherlock, Recovery, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 65,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back in the world after The Fall. Back in London, back with John. It's everything he ever wanted, everything he fought for- It should be everything he needs. </p><p>But something is wrong with Molly Hooper and she doesn't seem to want to talk about it- At all. And especially not with the higher functioning sociopath who's broken her heart all these years. But what's the point in being The Great Detective if one of your best friends is in trouble and you can't help her? One way or another, Sherlock's determined to get to the bottom of what's ailing his pathologist... Whether Ms. Hooper wants him to or not... </p><p>Hard T for some language, mentions of domestic abuse and abusive relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Noise of Life Begins Again

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. The title and all chapter names are taken from the poem_ _"_ _In Memoriam,_ _"_ _by Tennyson. Please note that this story will contain references to unhealthy relationships and domestic abuse._

**THE NOISE OF LIFE BEGINS AGAIN**

_The first time it happens, she_ _'_ _s performing an autopsy._

It's a complicated procedure and Sherlock needs the results to be unimpeachable or his client will go to trial. Noor's only seventeen, her whole life ahead of her, and for that reason Sherlock supposes he must ensure that only the best pathologist takes part. So he comes into St. Bart's- his first visit since his return- and he demands to see Molly. He told Lestrade to put her on the case and he's certain that- annoyance at his faking his death notwithstanding- the DI did as he asked.

The girl at the front desk seems well aware of who he is and she nods him through, handing him a visitor's pass and then going back to her scintillating copy of  _Heat_ magazine. Barely paying any attention to which way he's going, and if he weren't in the middle of a case then Sherlock would probably be horrified at how lax security has gotten in his absence.  _But that_ _'_ _s not why he_ _'_ _s here_ , he reminds himself as he hurries to the morgue. He's here to make sure that his case gets solved. He's here to show that, though he lied to everyone he loves and faked his death, he is still a trust-worthy individual who can do some good.  _So John can stop randomly punching him whenever they meet._ As he walks he's aware that his step is growing brisker, anticipation building within him. He hasn't seen Molly since before he returned to life in Baker Street, and he's unwilling to examine how eager to speak with her he is.  _After all, it_ _'_ _s only been six months._ But be that as it may, he turns a corner and practically bounds into the Lab, mouth already open to start bombarding her with questions-

She's standing at the slab, scalpel in hand, when he enters.

She looks exactly as he remembers from their months together in her flat, expression intent, slim body unutterably still with concentration, but for the first time in his life Sherlock just feels like something about her is…  _off._

It's not her clothing, though that's different. In the latter months of his hiding out in her flat she had begun changing her usual style, the flat pumps and runners she'd worn everywhere giving way to low kitten heels. The t-shirts turning to blouses, jeans replacing her usual tracksuit bottoms-  _Not that Sherlock had noticed all that much_. At the time he hadn't thought much of it, had noted it as something vaguely discomfiting but not all that important.  _He had, however, liked the way she looked._

But the Molly who greets him this morning is dressed exactly like the Molly who orchestrated his fall, right down to the frankly ridiculous, cherry-stalk-patterned cardigan she's wearing. Her hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail over her shoulder, wisps of it all around her face. She's not wearing makeup, and the small, hoop earrings she had begun favouring when last he saw her are gone. It's… odd.  _Very, very odd._

And staring at her, he can't see a clue as to why she might be dressing the way she is.

Sherlock opens his mouth to greet her, not breaking his stride as he makes his way over to the body. He's carrying two paper cups of coffee ( _or as John describes them, caffeinated apologies_ ) one on top of the other.  _If he_ _'_ _s going to talk to anyone, Sherlock has discovered that it_ _'_ _s just better to have them to hand._  But before he can get within three feet of Molly she stiffens. Visibly. It takes her a moment to even look at him.

He comes to a halt, the half-smile he'd been wearing falling away.

 _He_ _'_ _s never seen Molly react to him like that before and he_ _'_ _s surprised how much it_ _…_ _irks him_.

But he decides not to say anything. For all he knows she's uncomfortable being around him again- it's one of those feelings things, apparently- and it would probably be better for him to give her time and not just snap, "Oh, do cop the fuck on, John."  _After all, raising his voice to Molly isn't really a very pleasant thing to do._  And he should probably just be grateful that she's gotten over her dressing up phase and turned back into the woman he knows again.  _It really was most disturbing, watching her wriggle and sashay around the flat._ So he slows but doesn't stop, placing her coffee on the work-table beside her. She's a scalpel in one hand and a human heart in the other, it's highly unlikely she'll want a drink right now. "Good morning," he says instead. He tries to make it sound friendly.

She murmurs something which might be "good morning, Sherlock," but it's so muffled he can't be sure.

He holds his peace though, waits for her to say something else. It's an approach which tends to work when you value what the approachee thinks of you more than you value what you can get out of them by way of evidence. The silence stretches out however, Molly still not looking at him. She half-stammers observations on the corpse quietly into her Dictaphone and Sherlock feels like he may as well not be there.

If there's one thing he hates, it's being ignored _. Just ask Mycroft_. He's made a career out of ensuring that he never is, and today will be no exception. So he strolls casually over to the other side of the slab, leans over her shoulder. He knows how she hates when he does that- she calls it being a "backseat pathologist,"- and he's sure the irritation will get her to talk. She must be so intent on the corpse that she doesn't notice him moving. He's behind her before she even realises, and her eyes widen as she takes in how near he actually is. Sherlock grins, ready to tease her about... something-  _he always comes up with_ _ **something**_ \- but as he does so he notices the way she's standing. She's stiffened sharply and for some reason he does not wish to examine Sherlock finds that very troubling indeed. The brown eyes widen further as she takes him in, a flash of what might be nervousness in their depths, and whatever he was about to say suddenly doesn't seem all that important-

"You're not supposed to be this near," she says. She's chewing at her lower lip. Sherlock finds it unsettling. "You- You might compromise the evidence if you don't move back-"

"I've stood over your cadavers before, Molly," he points out reasonably.

Again something flashes through her eyes, too quickly to decipher this time, and once again Sherlock thinks it looks like nervousness. But before he can tease the thought out, she catches him noticing. Tries to compensate.  _Now_  she meets his gaze, though it seems to Sherlock that she's forcing herself to do it.

"That was before I faked your death," she tells him. "Before they found out I'm quite capable of lying on the record and doctoring files. Before I was officially investigated by MI6. If I'm found to have allowed you in here then any results might be compromised and I know you don't want that. Noor's counting on us. So please-" She nods to the other side of the room- "Step back. Over there. I'll let you know when I'm done."

She returns her attention to the corpse as he moves to the spot she indicated.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she murmurs, so quietly he barely hears.

And that's how they conduct the rest of his visit. Him throwing out the occasional query from the other side of the room while both of their coffees cool and remain undrunk. Her not really offering any information besides that he asks for, an arrangement which should be wonderfully uncomplicated but feels very unsatisfactory indeed. The autopsy process moves along far more quickly than it normally does without Molly stopping to answer his questions every two seconds; Sherlock just makes suggestions, runs a couple of his own experiments (though none on the body) and generally tries not to get under the young pathologist's feet.  _It_ _ **should**_ _be fine, but it is, demonstrably, not._ The hours pass pleasantly enough though, even if he can't help the feeling that something isn't right about the entire endeavour-

Hours later, after they're finished, he sees Molly hop into a midnight blue Audi.

As it drives off Sherlock swears he sees her staring at him through the passenger-seat window, but the car's moving to fast to be sure.


	2. For Words, Like Nature, Half Reveal

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

**FOR WORDS, LIKE NATURE, HALF REVEAL**

The second time it happens, there are other witnesses.

It's Mrs. Hudson's birthday and she's having a party. Just a small get-together, close friends and family only-  _Though Sherlock can't help but note that Mr. Ramidarthy, the widowed owner of the curry-house two streets away, has also been invited and he doesn't qualify on either count._ Sherlock's wary of going on his own but his former landlady tells him he'll come and that's an end to it.

"I didn't get you back to never see you," she tells him. "So put on a suit, buy me a present, and for God's sake try to behave yourself."

The first half of that order is easy to carry out: As soon as he got back to London he had to completely repopulate his wardrobe (he'd put on too much muscle to fit into anything from his previous life) and so he has numerous suits to choose from. Choosing a present for Mrs. Hudson is likewise not difficult: He buys her a small bottle of something unique from Floris, one of London's finest perfumiers, and has them wrap it. The scent contains the same base notes as all the others she wears, though the higher notes are distinctive. He suspects that she'll love it so much he'll never have to make himself a cup of tea again-

_A great deal has changed in the last three years, but Sherlock's sense of his own cleverness is something that will never be taken away._

So by the time he reaches the party he's feeling quite happy with himself. John's going to be there, sans Mary, and he's looking forward to spending time with his best friend without said best friend worrying he'll say something untoward to his wife. Sherlock doesn't know what John's so worried about. Mary's proved herself more than willing to tell him to fuck off when he annoys her and he finds that sort of confidence quite attractive in a woman.  _And besides, she's John's_ _ **wife**_ _; he has some sense of social niceties._ But be that as it may, having time to talk to John without the added pressure of trying not to offend Mary will be a relief. They might even around to discussing a couple of cases which have been bothering Sherlock for days. Somewhat excited by this notion Holmes knocks on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, taking a moment to straighten his suit and check his gift's wrapping-

The door opens, and he sees Molly on the other side of it.

She doesn't look happy to see him.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say hello-  _what else is he going to say?_ \- but before he can she steps aside, motions for him to enter.

"Hello, Sherlock," she says, so quietly he almost doesn't hear it, and then she turns and all but scurries inside, leaving him to shut the door behind him.

Sherlock blinks, surprised, following slowly after her. She's wearing her hair down this time and a miniscule amount of makeup, but other than that he might not have recognised her at all. Again, those jeans and heels and blouses he remembers from his final days living with her are noticeably absent. She's swathed in a hideous pink jumper that looks about four sizes too big for her, a pair of old runners on her feet. And she's at a party, the kind of thing he now knows she likes dressing up for, so he can't imagine why she hasn't even tried to do so.  _He once watched Molly Hooper spend four hours doing her hair for a girls' night out._  And if that wasn't enough there was that slightly panicked look on her face when she saw him. As if she hadn't expected him and was afraid he was going to attack her or something-

Sherlock follows her into the living room, feeling slightly dazed. So dazed, in fact, that he doesn't notice John until he walks right into him.

He looks down at his friend, opens his mouth to apologise, and in that moment he realises that John has noticed it too.

It's in the way his eyes dart from Sherlock to Molly and then back again. Holmes gives a tiny nod, indicating that he knows what John means. Without waiting for a spoken explanation the doctor grabs his elbow and marches him off to the kitchen, not even allowing Sherlock to present Mrs. Hudson with her gift though the older woman seems to be too busy chatting to Gregg Lestrade to notice his arrival. As soon as they're inside John closes the door, leans against it. It's old, divided into panels of smoky, browned glass and it will do bugger all to muffle the sound of their conversation to those outside-  _Which Sherlock suspects may get a little loud._ John must know that too because he marches to the back of the kitchen, as far from the door as possible. Sherlock follows, pulls out a cigarette and leans near the open back window so that he has a cover if anyone asks what he and John are doing hiding in here. John cocks an eyebrow at him: Clearly, his friend thinks as little of his taking up smoking again as Mycroft had done.

"So you've seen," John begins without preamble.

"If you mean Molly, then yes."

John crosses his arms. "And what are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock frowns. "What do you mean? You surely don't think that Molly's fashion choices are any of my concern?"

John rolls his eyes heavenward in a gesture which Sherlock long ago learned means  _Christ, give me patience._ The expression makes him feel slightly nostalgic, and normally the only thing that does that is visiting crime scenes. "I'm not suggesting you tell her how to dress, Sherlock," Watson says testily. "I'm suggesting you apologise for whatever you said about her appearance that prompted that…"

And he sweeps his hand towards the living room, indicating that hideous pink jumper, probably.

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow. "Why do you presume I had anything to do with this?" he demands. "I assure you, I have said nothing insulting about Molly's appearance in more than a year. Before the Noor Almasi case, I hadn't even seen her in six months. And when I did, she was like this. Which is to say, the way she's always looked." He narrows his eyes. "I thought you'd noticed it too; That's why you dragged me in here-"

John shakes his head. "Of course I noticed it: She and Mary are practically best friends at this stage. Who do you think took her out shopping for all those new clothes?" He rakes a hand through his hair. "But I thought she was making progress, I thought she was getting over you…" For some reason Sherlock won't investigate something…  _twinges_ most peculiarly in his chest. "She'd started going out, seeing other people," John is saying. "Mary set her up with a bloke and she seemed happy enough-"

"What bloke?"

Sherlock suspects he's scowling. Mainly because he is. But he'd have noticed if there was a "bloke," in Molly's life, surely?

_Or better yet, she'd have told him._

John looks at him like he'd worried for his mental health. "Her boyfriend, Ollie," he says, in a tone which suggests he's explaining something very complicated to someone very thick. "Surely you've seen him with her? Blond haired, about ye tall, built like a brick shit-house?" Sherlock shakes his head. "He's an old friend of Mary's, works in a private heart clinic out in St. John's Wood," John tells him. "Decent bloke, if I do say so myself. And not a bad rugby player, either."

This time Sherlock's sure he's scowling. "Well if she's found herself some strapping, decent, rugby-playing heart surgeon then why the Hell is she dressing like that?" he asks tartly. "Surely she'd be trying to look more attractive, not less."

John opens his mouth to snap back and answer and then closes it. "That's a good question," he says in a tone which suggests he's highly aggrieved at having to admit such a thing aloud. "I'd assumed that you said something terrible about her new clothes and that's why she stopped wearing them. But now you mention it, why would she do that? She lived with you all that time, and she didn't stop wearing them. And now she has someone to tell her she looks pretty, she doesn't need to rely on a great ponce like you-"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says dryly.

Watson shrugs, unrepentant. "Someone has to call you on your shite, mate," he says. His expression turns thoughtful. "But that doesn't answer the question: if it wasn't you making her doubt herself then what's going on here?"

Sherlock crosses his arms. "Is the "great ponce," entitled to voice an opinion now?" John nods absently. "Good. Then I'll ask you a better question: Why is she suddenly jumping every time she sees me?"

This time Watson's eyes narrow. It's obvious Sherlock's said something he really doesn't like. He once told him that he thought of Molly like a little sister, and Holmes guesses that's the reaction he's seeing now.

"She seems nervous?" he asks, and the detective nods, testily.

"She practically ordered me out of the morgue the last time I was there," Sherlock says. "She wouldn't let me stand close to her- In fact, she made me step away." He frowns, replaying the moment in his mind. Again, he feels that peculiar twinge within. "And just now, when she opened the door to me, she looked…" It clicks in his head. He hadn't seen it because he'd thought it couldn't possibly be true. But hadn't looked panicked, she'd looked scared. Of him.

She'd looked  _frightened_  of him.

 _And_   _Sherlock didn't care who she was going out with or what was going on with her, he wasn't bloody having_ _ **that.**_

"What is it?" John demands. "I know it's something: You've got your Bond villain face on."

"I've got my Vatican cameos face on, if you must know." He shakes his head. "And I rather think I'll be wearing it for a while."

Because Sherlock's trying to rein in his temper now, trying to push away a wave of annoyance at himself for not seeing this before. He has blind spots, he knows: Moriarty demonstrated that to him.  _John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade_. These are people for whom his emotions sometimes get in the way. These are his pressure-points, his weaknesses. But it hadn't occurred to him to add Molly to that list.

 _She's never seemed a weakness to him_.

And yet, if he hadn't been able to characterise something as basic as fear in her reactions to him, how blind was he? Of all the emotions save anger, fear was by far the easiest one to read. And that's not even factoring in why she might be afraid of him. He practically lived in her house for eight months without any unruly incidents: After the first few weeks the nerves wore off and Molly treated him as she would any other house-guest.  _It had been a great relief._ And that being the case, Sherlock had assumed that she knew he'd never willingly hurt her. After the debacle of the Christmas party he'd even made a conscious effort to be polite to her and he thought she'd correctly gauged his desire not to offend-

 _But if she's not afraid he's going to be nasty to her_ , he thinks,  _then what is she afraid of?_

An image pops into his mind, a dark-haired young man, small and unprepossessing and absolutely lethal, carving IOU into a red apple.

Sherlock rejects the notion out of hand- it's preposterous- but something about that image nags at him.

If he believed in such claptrap notions he'd almost call it intuition, but intuition is the name lazy detectives give their inability to understand their own methods.

"Sherlock," John's calling. "Sherlock, come back from the mother-ship and fill me in here." He leans back against the sink, shoots his friend a searching look. "What do you think is going on?"

Sherlock straightens up. "I don't know." He's gotten a great deal better at saying that in the last year, but he'll never become comfortable with it. His pride won't let him. "I don't know what's going on with her, I just know I'm going to find out."

John holds up both hands placatingly. "Easy there, Lois Lane," he says. "Don't you think I'd better ask her?" Sherlock looks at him in disbelief. Again, John rolls his eyes. "What with my never having deduced her, bullied her or told her that her mouth was too small when I was trying to manipulate her into doing something for me." He shrugs. "Besides, I'm the one who's good with women."

Holmes narrows his eyes. "I'll tell Mary you said that."

John makes a show of shrugging again. "And I'll tell her you're the reason Molly's not wearing that bloody expensive party dress she talked her into buying for today in the sales. See how that goes down."

"Touché."

John smiles. "Bloody right. Now give me ten minutes, I'll find out what's up with her." He nods to himself with certainty. "And if I have to, I'll give the bugger who's bothering her a piece of my mind."

Sherlock snorts. "Better make sure it's a small one."

John's grin widens. "Some of us have more going for us than brains, mate."

And with that they head out of the kitchen, both set in their purpose and sure. But when they come out they find Molly gone and nobody knows where she ran off to, just that it was some sort of domestic emergency.

Sherlock gives Mrs. Hudson her gift and tries to enjoy the party, but he can't help feeling that something important is missing- And by the looks of things, John feels the same.


	3. But There Are Other Griefs Within

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

**BUT THERE ARE OTHER GRIEFS WITHIN**

Sherlock doesn't see Molly again for another four months, and in all that time neither he, John nor Mary find out what's wrong with her.

Oh, they try: John by dropping into the morgue for a friendly chat when Mary's in for a consultation. Mary by going the more traditional route of appearing on Molly's doorstep with a bottle of wine, a bag of DVDs and enough Indian food to feed a starving family of ten. Sherlock calls into the morgue whenever and how often he pleases but it does absolutely no good; Molly manages to duck every attempt at talking to her in private, John by telling him that she has a delicate autopsy that she needs to work on without distraction, Mary by telling her that Ollie had picked that very night to make a romantic meal for two and she's so sorry but would Mary mind doing this another evening?

Sherlock, Molly doesn't even give the opportunity to duck to.

She just ignores him whenever he comes to the morgue unless it's on official business, and even then she won't let him in unless a member of the Met is with him.

So the months go by and nobody talks to her. Every time they try she has a new excuse, and what with the problems with her health- she's been absent four times in the last few months alone- there's not a lot of opportunity to pin her down. At first Sherlock is merely interested in her change in attitude. After all, one would think a woman who'd lie for you, procure a corpse for you and risk the wrath of a massive criminal organisation just so you could fake your death would be a little less willing to stop spending time with you once you could be seen in public with her again. He knows he's made her nervous over the years, but he had thought his time hiding out at her flat had cured them both of their mutual tendency to put their foot in it around one another.  _In fact, he would have thought that he and Molly Hooper had become… friends._ But clearly he was mistaken, he thinks testily, since these days she appears to be allergic to him-

If, however, Molly thinks he's going to give up on her just because she's ducking him then she clearly doesn't know him very well.

Mycroft, every teacher who ever taught him at Harrow (before he was kicked out) and every DI he's worked with besides Lestrade could have told her that  _that_ plan simplywasn't going to work.

So one day he sneaks into the morgue in St. Bart's without telling her. Just puts on a hi-vis' jacket and a stolen police cap and waltzes right in the door. Since he's being covert, he decides to come in the back, the better to observe her working before she realises he's there: He appreciates that this is apparently "creepy," (Mary's words) but he doesn't really see what the problem is.  _It's not like he's bloody sneaking in to watch Molly change._ The layout of the morgue is simple: There's the lab/body room where the corpses are kept on their slabs, a small back office partitioned into three for admin (though the pokiness of the rooms means that most of the pathologists sit in the main space to write up their reports) and then there's the tiny toilets and changing area, where everyone has their work lockers and keeps their things. It's this that he walks through (unlocked fire-exits are a Godsend for anyone in his business), smiling to himself at the thought of finally getting to talk to Molly.

 _Because whatever happens_ , he thinks,  _he's going to get to the bottom of this today_.

He moves quietly from the locker-room to the admin area, watching for other people as he goes. It's quiet-  _Stamford's on his lunch_ \- and there's nobody to distract Molly from him and their long-overdue conversation. He can see her now, leaning over a body and examining its neck. As he gets closer Sherlock realises the corpse is that of a woman, mid to late seventies with iron-white hair. She's been beaten badly about the face and shoulders, her nose cartilage clearly broken ante-mortem. Molly frowns at what she sees, leaning downwards. Her lab-coat hangs loosely off her-  _she's lost weight since last he saw her-_  and she's wearing only a long-sleeved tee-shirt, her hair messily tied back off her face. As she moves to get a closer look at the subject's neck both the lab coat and tee shift, exposing a sliver of one pale shoulder-blade and a worn, black bra strap-

And suddenly Sherlock's staring, riveted, at the young pathologist.

Because there, on her neck and shoulders, unaccountably,  _unarguably,_ Molly Hooper sports an angry, mottled, yellowing-to-purple bruise.

Sherlock has seen plenty of physical injuries before. He's studied their effects, made sure too that he's familiar with any medical issues within his circle of friends which might explain the presence of contusions or other injuries. But Molly Hooper, he happens to know, does not suffer from any of them. And besides, the injury he's looking at was clearly caused by a hand. A large, long-fingered, more than likely  _male_ hand. The pattern of bruising is quite distinctive, blue-black smudges arrayed in the unmistakable shape of fingers. Darker marks at the outward radius where nails had gripped her skin and dragged her bodily.

 _This had not been a playful little tussle,_ he thinks darkly.

_This had… This had been the sort of thing which would have_ _**hurt** _ _._

Sherlock can feel the beginnings of anger-  _no, rage_ \- mounting within him. Just as it had when Moriarty threatened his friends, just as it had when Neilson and his men harmed Mrs. Hudson. Because the placement of that bruise, he knows, is not accidental. It's too unusual, too easily hidden by both clothing and Molly's hair.  _Somebody made that mark on Molly_ , he thinks,  _and they didn't want anyone to see it_. If an injury like that had happened accidentally then he would have heard about it. She would have missed work and the reason given would have been injury, not flu as her last four reported illnesses had been. And had Molly been in some sort of fight then he would know about it too: Lestrade would make sure to tell John even if he still hadn't forgiven Sherlock enough to tell him. Because the people he cared about were a group, a family of sorts. A unit. Molly was one of their members and they looked after one another-  _At least, they looked after one another if given the bloody chance._  And they protected one another if given the chance too, a fact which Sherlock suspected the person who hurt Molly would soon find out to his cost.

_Molly gave him his life back, she saved him._

_The least he could do was make sure that she was not hurt._

Holmes knows that he shouldn't do what he does next. He knows that there could be a reasonable explanation, though he doubts it. Just as he knows he should bring his worries to someone- possibly Mary- and ask her to test the waters with Molly.  _Because Christ knows if he tries it he'll probably muck it up._ But though he knows that he still finds his feet propelling him forwards. He marches into the morgue as self-righteously as a priest into a pulpit, stealth forgotten, and as he does so he sees Molly look up from her cadaver. She blinks in surprise- for a moment he doesn't think she recognises him- and then he sees the familiar, shuttered look go through her eyes as she realises who he is.

She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "I told you, you're not supposed to be in here, Sherlock," she says. "I know you think sneaking in is funny but I don't-"

Sherlock plants himself in front of her, glares down at her. He realises that he's probably intimidating her but he can't really bring himself to move back.

"What happened to your shoulder?" he says instead, ignoring her chiding. Her eyes widen.

"You're not- Nothing happened to my shoulder." She's babbling and it's a bloody long time since she's done that around him. "I just… I just fell at home. Hit my shoulder-blade off the doorknob to the downstairs loo. You remember how awkward that handle is-"

Sherlock makes an impatient motion with his hands. "Don't forget who I am, Molly," he says curtly. "The bruise on your shoulder was made by fingers. I can clearly see the pattern they made, and I can probably extrapolate how large the person's hand was. I'm guessing, judging by the size, that it was a large, heavy-set man. Now, if it was an unknown assailant- which is unlikely, since you wouldn't lie for a stranger- then we can use that to start tracking him down. If it was someone you know, I can still use that hand-print to start looking. I'll just call Lestrade and-"

"No!" She snaps it at him and it's so loud and so frightened and so desperate that this time it's Sherlock's turn to blink. "It was an accident," she says, more quietly. "Ollie didn't- I fell and he was helping me up."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her. "He was helping you up by the scruff of the neck?" he asks harshly.

 _Manhandling a woman should not come so easily to any man,_ he thinks.

Redness is starting to come to her cheeks, her gaze sliding from his. Embarrassment, then, rather than anger. "I was drunk," she says. "Couldn't get my legs to stay under me-"

This Sherlock finds hard to believe. Molly knows her limits, she doesn't often drink enough to become unsteady on her feet, let alone lose control of her body. "He still shouldn't have picked you up like that," he says. "You're a small woman: a fireman's hold would have been far more logical-"

Her eyes harden.  _Ah, anger: There you are._ "We're not all as logical as you," she says. Her hands ball into fists as she says it, and this Sherlock finds inexplicable.

_Why on Earth would she be irritated with him?_

"It's not about being logical," he snaps back, "it's about making sure you're not hurt. Even if you weren't able to stand, he shouldn't have picked you up like that."

He gestures to her neck and she flinches back a little. Though he knows that she's probably just wary of having anyone touch the injury, Sherlock still feels a flash of hurt at her withdrawal and that, he knows, makes no sense at all.

"Look, Mr. Holmes," Molly says, and this time she's biting out the words, "this is none of your business. I'm none of your business, not any more. So you can just take your smugness and your insinuations and your big, flowy coat and bugger off, alright? Have you got that?"

And with that she turns on her heel and marches out of the lab before he can say anything else to her. Sherlock hears the outer doors to the morgue slam and he can't think of a single thing to make her come back in. So he pulls out his phone and talks to John, and after that he has his first full-tar cigarette in more than a year, leaning against the gates of Postman's Park. He feels… He feels slightly dizzy.

He goes home to Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson waiting in his rooms for him, and from there on his day just gets progressively worse.


	4. I Do But Sing Because I Must

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

**I DO BUT SING BECAUSE I MUST**

Sherlock doesn't really remember the first time he met Mrs. Hudson.

He thinks that he was nineteen or maybe twenty, in the first blush of those wandering years between getting turfed out of Oxford and over-dosing in Camden. Everything a blur, a new set of experiences for him to try.  _A new set of grownup trials for him to screw up._ He used to use a dealer called Caspian who lived a couple of doors down from 221B, the elder brother of a university friend. Caspian sold the strongest, cleanest, most organic drugs in Central London to boys like himself and girls like his girlfriend, relieving his university chums of the need to go into the nastier parts of the city in order to score and simultaneously keeping himself in the sort of style to which his Daddy's money had allowed him to become accustomed.

_It was, he liked to tell everyone, a win-win situation._

Sherlock didn't like Caspian, or his girlfriend Portia, but he did like knowing his drugs weren't cut with anything dangerous. He was not yet at that stage of addiction where the desire for oblivion had morphed into the desire for self-annihilation, and drugs like those Caspian sold meant he could stay reasonably safe. So he'd come around maybe twice a week with a pocketful of money and sit on the steps of 221B, waiting for Caspian to come out to him. It was far more dangerous doing a deal in the open but Portia- the girlfriend- refused to have Sherlock in the house ever since the night he drunkenly offered to suck her boyfriend off if he knocked something off the price of his order. ( _Sherlock didn't know what she was so upset about; he was hardly the first one to offer_.) But be that as it may, Portia was dead set against him with a hardness of heart which would have done Queen Victoria proud. And so Holmes sat on the steps of a house he didn't know and waited for his friendly, neighbourhood drug-dealer, trying his best not to look suspicious.

And since he usually sat on the steps of her house, unsurprisingly, he ended up running into Mrs. Hudson quite a lot. Ended up talking to her too.

He wasn't yet living on the streets at that point and his clean clothes and upper-class accent put her at her ease enough that she didn't chase him off her step. And so an entente of sorts began. A truce. But as the months went by, he began to notice certain things about her. Even through the blur of being perpetually stoned he saw that her appearance changed quite radically, that sometimes she wore elegant, dressy clothes and sometimes she came out swathed in more fabric than a mummy. She also wore sunglasses a lot, despite the fact that winter in London is seldom sunny, and she seemed accident-prone, if the amount of bruises he saw on her were any indication. At first this had confused him: Were he to see her today, Sherlock would have known within minutes of meeting her that she was being physically abused by her husband. The signs were all there; it was practically text-book. But he was young and she was proud and they never talked about it. He was just The Boy On The Step and she was just The Nice Lady Who Smiled At Him. They had no other connection than that, nothing else in common.

And then, after a more than two years of this arrangement, he discovered that Mr. Hudson was on trial for murdering a young woman in Florida.

He found out because he overheard her in the hall, talking to someone on the telephone through a door she hadn't locked properly, and she sounded absolutely terrified that her husband would escape the charges and come back to her.

By that time Sherlock' addiction had turned more serious, the weight falling off him, his contact with the real world becoming ever more tenuous. He was waking up in strange beds with strange people and even stranger bruises, and he'd lost all contact with Mycroft, though his brother continued to deposit money in his account every week. Sherlock knew he was falling, losing himself to the substances he took. They no longer dulled his mind but dulled his senses, and he found himself waking up some days wondering whether he was alive at all. But something about the idea that The Nice Lady Who Smiled At Him might need his help seemed to cut through the fog of his dependence. The skills he'd polished all through his teenaged years, the skills which had made him such an outcast in university, those skills could, he knew, rescue The Nice Lady Who Smiled At Him. And so he'd haltingly introduced himself and offered to help ensure her husband's conviction. She'd been nervous but not frightened, and while it had been obvious that she didn't believe him, she'd still offered to buy him a cup of tea in Speedy's, and maybe a sandwich, a ritual which had eventually become weekly until Sherlock finally kicked his habit once and for all. And he  _had_  managed to ensure her husband was convicted of the murder, his first proper case working with Gregg Lestrade, the case which convinced him he could be something besides his need for stimulation-

He thinks of all this as he sits in his front room now, Mrs. Hudson fiddling in her lap with the long sleeves of her top.

He thinks it and he remembers her bruises and he thinks about the one he saw on Molly Hooper today, and it doesn't happen very often but Sherlock realises that he'd really, really,  _really_ like to shoot something Right. The Hell. Now.

"You talked to John," he says then, because really, why else would she be here?

He came in to find her already in the flat, pouring herself a cup of tea.

The older woman nods, her eyes going anywhere but his. He hasn't seen her look this nervous since her husband's execution and despite himself he feels an unaccountable flash of annoyance at it.  _Doesn't she know she has nothing to fear from him?_

The memory of Molly's reaction today flashes behind his eyes and he forces the thought away.

She must see his irritation though because she seems to pull herself together, gestures for him to sit. She's brought a plate of biscuits out- bourbon crèmes- and if she's eating those then she really is nervous.

_But then, given what Sherlock suspects they're about to talk about, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised._

"John called and told me what you think's happening," she says then, taking a biscuit and dipping it into her tea.  _Another nervous habit. "_ He says- He says you think someone's hurting our Molly."

"Somebody is." Realising that there's no way he can get out of this conversation without being so unspeakably rude even  _he'd_ feel ashamed of himself, Sherlock nods and folds his lanky frame into the chair opposite her. He takes a biscuit and waits while she pours him a cup, chewing thoughtfully until the tea is ready.

"Is it that Ollie?" Mrs. Hudson asks, and her hands shake ever so slightly as she says it. The colour in her cheeks turning high even as the rest of her skin pales. It doesn't happen often, but just for a moment Sherlock feels tempted to… comfort her somehow.

He sighs though.  _He's really not built for that sort of thing._

"I think so. Statistically speaking, it's more than likely her domestic partner." He grimaces. "You of all people know that."

She nods. "And do you think- How far along is it?" She clears her throat and makes a show of staring into her teacup, taking a bite of her biscuit. "I mean- Do you- Do you think he's…"

"I know he's grabbed her by the throat," Sherlock says curtly. "I suspect he's done more- Now that I think about it, the amount of time she's spent out of work is suspicious. She was healthy as a horse when I lived with her; she never called in sick. But these last few months…"

Mrs. Hudson nods again. "And the way she acts around you and John now," she says softly. "I think- I think he's probably told her to stay away from you two. You especially, Sherlock." Something hard and angry twists her lip. "Men like him don't like the notion of competition."

Sherlock snorts. "I'm hardly competition. If Ollie's insecure enough to believe that then he's an idiot." He shakes his head at himself. "Though he's not the only one. I can't believe I didn't see this-"

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson doesn't often use that brusque, no-nonsense tone, but she's using it now. It always makes Sherlock feel… mothered.

_He'll never admit how much he likes that._

"You know you couldn't have guessed this," the older woman is saying. " _I_ didn't see it, and I of all of you should have known. But I always thought Molly so sensible- except for her little crush on you- and she seemed so genuinely happy in the beginning. I didn't want to spoil it, and just because something horrible happened to me doesn't mean it will happen to everyone, you know?" She shakes her head to herself, plops her cup down into her saucer slightly harder than she strictly needs to. Again her mouth twists into that angry, hard line. "I should have seen this," she's muttering, "I really should have seen this…"

She sighs. "But I didn't. Nobody did. And all we can do is try to help Molly  _now_."

_And for the first time in a long time, Mrs. Hudson looks old._

Sherlock nods, rather than ponder that.  _He really doesn't like contemplating his landlady's progressing age._ "Of course," he says instead. "I take it Molly can stay here if she needs to?" Mrs. Hudson looks almost affronted that he'd felt he had to ask. "Good. Then I'm going to go to Scotland Yard tomorrow and ask Lestrade to look into this Ollie. I'll need any info I can get my hands on, but I suspect the new Mrs. Watson will be more than forthcoming with that. And I'm going to talk to Sally Donovan about the best way to build a case-"

Mrs. Hudson's expression shows a twinge of disgust. "Why on Earth would you talk to that nasty Donovan?" she asks. "Didn't she and that Anderson get you into trouble before you faked your death?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Sally did three years with a Community Safety Unit in Brixton," he points out. "If anyone would know how to build a case, she would. Can't afford to hold what she did against her if she's going to help Molly now."

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him, a warm, proud smile, and just for a moment Sherlock is The Boy On The Step again, having someone be nice to him for the first time in what seems like a lifetime.  _It's a surprisingly satisfying feeling_.

"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," she says quietly. "A very good man."

"Thank you. I-I hope that will be enough." Sherlock looks down at his biscuit, not entirely certain how to respond beyond that. Knowing only that Mrs. Hudson's words make him feel better than he has since Molly stopped talking to him. So he swallows his pride and calls Lestrade that very night, gets Donovan's number and calls her-

He thinks this will be the beginning of the end for this case.

But as Sherlock soon finds out, his troubles have just begun.


	5. By Faith And Faith Alone Embrace

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. T_

**BY FAITH AND FAITH ALONE EMBRACE**

"Hey, freak."

Those are the first words Donovan says to him when he enters the incident room in Belgravia, and Sherlock doubts that anything more friendly will pass her lips while he's in her company. But while he may be tempted to deduce her- she and Anderson are clearly on the outs, judging by the defiantly dressy outfit she's chosen for today and the fact that there's a man's phone number written on her hand- he manages to rein himself in.

_No good can come from teasing her, and he really would like her help._

So instead of saying anything he simply nods to her, places a paper coffee cup in front of her. It's her favourite- a flat white with an extra shot- and he silently thanks John once again for convincing him that bringing coffee anywhere there are policemen from whom he might want information is a capital notion.  _If you're going to try and bribe them, Sherlock_ , his friend had told him,  _then be honest about it and give them something they might actually **want** -_

Donovan stares at the cup as if it might be poison and Sherlock wonders whether John had factored Sally into that equation however.

After a moment she gives a majestically long-suffering sniff though and deigns to take a sip.

Sherlock sees her eyes widen in surprise, then pleasure, that he got her order right. "Alright, I  _might_  give you what you're looking for," she says warily, eyeing him. She gestures to the chair before her and Sherlock folds himself into it. "Go ahead, freak, tell me what you want."

Sherlock doesn't bother asking her to drop the insulting nickname. He knows that the request would be pointless, just as he knows that he has often been less than polite to the young policewoman, and so probably deserves it. Instead he leans in closer, trying to keep his voice down. She's on loan from Lestrade's squad to the murder team in Belgravia and it's the only reason he would consider discussing Molly out loud here: Nobody in this room will know who he's talking about. "I have a friend-" he begins.

Donovan snorts. "Is this friend named Con Dotson? Or is it Sheerluck Gnomes?"

Again, Sherlock reminds himself not to get snappish. "This friend is a woman," he says stiffly. "A… special woman." He clears his throat, surprised, at how difficult he finds it to say the next words. "I believe- I believe that someone is harming her.

And I believe that you may be able to give me some advice in stopping it."

Donovan goes very still at that. She directs her next question to her coffee cup. "Why?" she asks. Her expression has twisted most peculiarly, almost like that question caused her physical pain. "Are you asking me because you think I owe you over the Richard Brooke thing?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. I'm asking your advice because you survived the Brixton Community Safety Unit for three years before you joined Lestrade's team," he tells her. "You had their highest rate for closing cases- In fact, your track record hasn't been bettered yet- And domestic abuse cases are often very difficult to prosecute. That makes you the closest thing I'm going to find to an expert, and if I'm going to help Mo- my friend, then I'm going to  _need_ an expert-"

Again Sally snorts, but this time there's an angry, hard edge to it.

"That's a nice bit of sentiment, freak."

Without warning Sally gets to her feet, sweeping her leather jacket up with one hand even as she reaches down and picks up her coffee cup. She's turned decidedly pale, her eyes downcast and he can read pain, anger, in her expression. Suddenly her body has gone tight with stress. He opens his mouth to ask what's wrong but she silences him with a look. "Let's take a walk," she says sharply. "You can bring your coffee."

She leans down and practically whispers the next part.

"You don't want to have this conversation in here."

And, Sherlock in tow, she makes her way out of the building, nodding and smiling pleasantly to just about everyone. While he normally only sees the tart, angry side of Donovan, it occurs to him that she appears to be a well-liked member of her team.  _How did he miss that?_ But before he an ponder it she's led him across the road to the corner, coffee cup still in hand. "Take out a smoke and light up," she mutters from behind the drink. "It'll make you look less suspicious."

Sherlock nods. "Alright. But I'm not sure why we're having this conversation out here-"

"Because Molly Hooper hasn't pressed charges against anyone and you don't want her name being mentioned in there in relation to domestic abuse allegations," Sally snaps. She stares at him over the rim of her cup as his eyebrows threaten to migrate beyond his widow's peak in surprise. "Yes, I guessed. Wasn't difficult. You know, for a "proper genius," you really aren't the sharpest sometimes."

Sherlock summons his archest stare. "I never said it was Molly."

Sally shoots him an epically unimpressed look. "And who else is it going to be?"

He scowls. "Fine. So it is Molly. Is that why you're being so belligerent?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm being belligerent because the way I see it, this could be one of two things. Either you're pissed off at her over something- probably for not paying attention to you now she has a boyfriend- and you're looking to make trouble." Sherlock opens his mouth to start lecturing her but she rushes on. "Or else, she  _is_  in trouble but she isn't ready to press charges against the bastard yet.

And believe me, if that's why you're here then we have a problem."

Sherlock can feel his expression turning mulish. "Do you honestly think I can't gather enough evidence?"

Sally gives an annoyed, long-suffering growl. "It's not about the evidence," she bites out. "And it's certainly not about you. It's about whether the woman who's being hurt is ready to get out of the situation she's in. It's about whether she's gotten the git who's abusing her out of her system, her brain, her heart." She shakes her head. "Women stay. They go back. Don't bloody ask me why, but they do- I've seen it. I've gotten to watch it play out more times than I can count and I don't want to watch it again, it's why I left Brixton."

She leans into Sherlock, punctuating each sentence as if it were a minor blow.

"I know you," she says. "You want to dart in there like Lancelot on a white horse and save the damsel. Run away again once it's done, certain that everything will be fine.  _But it won't be fine, Sherlock._ It  _can't_  be fine. If a woman's with an abusive partner then she needs to  _want_  to leave. She has to have faith and hope and a support network, not to mention balls of solid brass. And you coming here, telling me this about someone I'd consider a friend when she's not ready to save herself yet is cruel and unhelpful and more than a bit not good, ok?"

She stares at him challengingly, brown eyes to blue ones. Puffs out an angry breath.

For the first time in their long acquaintance, Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually, not really sure what else would be satisfactory. He can see he's upset Donovan, and he honestly didn't mean to do so.

_But how could he know what he knows and not say anything?_

The policewoman sighs. "I know that, fre- Sherlock." She smiles, this wan, tired thing that makes her look uncannily like Lestrade. It takes some of the sting from her next words. "And I know you think you're helping, but this isn't what Molly needs. What she needs is to get ready to press charges. What she needs is to know she has people who'll help her, who'll stand by her for the long haul, even if she does things they don't agree with. Even if she can't make herself leave for good the first time, or the third, or the fifth. Even if she still loves the bastard after he breaks her arm, or her jaw, or her nose."

And Donovan looks away, suddenly, her expression intent, as if she's seeing another time and place entirely.

Sherlock wisely holds his peace.

"This isn't a quick fix," she says eventually. "This isn't going to be easy. And as you're fond of pointing out, you're a higher-functioning sociopath: you're not meeting anyone's definition of cuddly or concerned." She fixes him with a look he suspects Anderson runs in living terror of. But for Molly's sake he doesn't let it faze him. "So are you in this for the long haul?" she asks him. "Are you going to lose interest once there's no more exciting evidence to piece together, no more hero to play?"

Sherlock nods once, his face hard with certainty.

"Molly is my friend," he says quietly. "I'll do what she needs me to, no matter what."

Donovan lets out another wan, tired smile then. For a moment she looks years younger than she is. "Then I'll tell you what I tell all the other families, and I'll make a couple of calls," she says. "I'll see what I can find on this bastard- on the quiet, of course."

She leans in close to him, her voice like granite.

Again Sherlock is reminded that Anderson probably lives in fear of her ire.

"And once I've prepped, you, you are going to talk to Molly Hooper and not be an arsehole," she says, tartly. "You are going to tell her that she has friends and a place to go and that she doesn't have to put up with this- And if we're very, very lucky she might already be halfway to thinking she ought to leave the git by now. But even if she's not, you're not abandoning her. Understand?"

Sherlock nods stiffly. "Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful, Sergeant Donovan. I'll... I'll make sure she understands that she is not alone."

Sally snorts. Rolls her eyes. She knocks back her coffee. "All these years trying not to help you," she snickers. "and I finally break my track record."

Sherlock makes certain to squeeze her shoulder, putting as much emotion as he dares into the gesture. "Cheer up," he says wryly. "You're not helping  _me_. You're helping someone much nicer."

And at that Sally Donovan actually laughs.

"That's not saying much," she tells him, and Sherlock finds he has to agree.


	6. Thy Roots Are Wrapped About With Bones

_**Disclaimer** _ _: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

**THY ROOTS ARE WRAPPED ABOUT WITH BONES**

The next couple of months go by in a blur.

Donovan is as good as her word, giving Sherlock as much information as she can. Not only about Ollie (real name, Oliver James Hough, real criminal record, several counts of assault as a juvenile) but on how to deal with a loved one you suspect of being abused. The rules are pretty simple apparently:  _Don't be an arsehole._

_And please try to remember Sherlock that it's not about you, it's about Molly._

She also gives him lists of names, bodies within the Met who can help Hooper press charges. Charities who work with victims of domestic violence, who can tell him what to expect and what (he hopes) not to say or do. There are psychologists to speak to, former colleagues of Sally's from the Brixton Community Safety Unit to meet with. There are safety lists to formulate and escape plans to be devised. There is Mycroft to be cornered, moneyswhich were to be made available to Molly during his Fall but which mysteriously never appeared to be found and redistributed-

John and Mary are advised of the situation. Mrs. Hudson is kept in the loop.

It really should be tremendously tedious, but it isn't.

_There's no mystery here, no puzzle, and yet Sherlock can feel this case devour his attention in a way few others have._

What Sally cannot do however-  _what nobody can_ \- is explain how to deal with knowing that someone he cares about is being harmed repeatedly. He hears about more regular absences from work, strange injuries, and he can tell even Mike Stamford's starting to get suspicious. Molly breaks her collarbone in some sort of freak accident that she can't properly explain; She misses an entire month that time, and people, lots of people including Lestrade, notice she's not there.

It's a mess.

But though he wants to go in and talk to her, Sherlock doubts he'd be welcome after last time. And he's afraid that his presence, if discovered, will just cause another attack. He rarely lets himself think about the sight of Molly's bruised neck, about the fear in her eyes when he saw her at Mrs. Hudson's birthday party, because when he does that he invariably ends up shooting holes in the said Mrs. Hudson's walls-  _And Mrs. Turner next door's Married Ones have already complained to the police about_ _ **that**_ _, so he doesn't think he should press his luck._ But late at night, when he can't smoke, when he can't do drugs, when he hasn't another case to take away his attention and John's all the way on the other side of town with his Mary, then the thoughts of what's happening to Molly kick and snarl and hiss around inside his brain, distracting him. Making him wonder if maybe he shouldn't just do the world a favour and stitch Ollie up for something nice and illegal, which will result in a spectacularly long jail sentence.

He shares this thought once with Donovan, and she grins at him.

"Know that feeling, freak," she says wryly, "But trust me, it's not worth it."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her. "So intent on upholding the law, even for miscreants, Sargeant Donovan?"

Sally snorts. "Too worried what'll happen to Molly if she doesn't get him out of her system before we collar the bastard."

Again that look comes into her eyes, as if she's briefly seeing another place and time entirely.

Sherlock wonders which of her old cases she's thinking of, but realises he doesn't want to know.

"She needs to want to leave," she says eventually-  _for what feels like the hundredth time._

"And what if she never wants to?" he asks quietly. "What do we do then?"

Sally puts a hand on his shoulder, looks straight at him. "Then we'll still be Molly's friends, and we'll still stand by her." She shakes her head, as if trying to fight off another memory. "That's all any of us can do in the end, mate."

And with that she snaps to, makes a show of looking around her gamely. From the corner of his eye he sees Anderson scowl, looking disgruntled and jealous, and he finds himself grinning. "Besides," she continues, "Molly's a bright woman, she'll find her sense of self-preservation, don't worry about it."

And with that she walks back to Lestrade, leaving Sherlock thoughtful and Anderson fuming.

He spots the other man gesticulating wildly in his direction a moment later while Donovan stares him down, her hand (Sherlock swears) twitching towards her night-stick.

Though her words that day were not really soothing, Sherlock holds onto them. And while he plots and plans and cajoles fate to do his bidding, enlisting Mary's aide in making sure that he has regular updates on Molly's well-being, he practices keeping his silence. Tries to make sure that nothing he does will give Ollie any more ammunition to drive Molly away. Eventually though, he has to go and talk to her. He's come up with what he thinks is her best chance of survival, a plan including every safety precaution he can imagine and, Sherlock being Sherlock, he feels has to present it in person.

_He cannot risk it falling into her boyfriend's hands._

So he waits until he can be sure Molly's in work and then sneaks into St. Bart's again. This time he pretends to be an orderly, even stealing a wheelchair to prove it. Twining the straps of the rucksack containing his escape pack for Molly around the wheelchair's handle-bars and whistling as he pushes the chair. If anybody in his lift to the basement wonders why a wheelchair would be needed in a morgue, they say nothing.  _Sherlock often finds himself wondering just how deeply ingrained English manners are._  But the rest of the hospital's reticence helps him, so he doesn't complain about it.

And when he finally gets into the morgue he finds himself happy to have something to hold onto.

Changes wrought slowly over time are not obvious to those who see a person every day. Let someone  _not_  see a person for a couple of months though, as he has not seen Molly, and the differences between who she was and who she is now become obvious.  _Stark._  She is thin now, far thinner than he has ever seen her. Her hair is washed and tied back but it looks lank, listless, and he belatedly realises it is because she has made no attempt to style it, probably in weeks. There are dark circles under her eyes, a slight tremor to her hands. Those are almost bony, translucent, and for some reason this annoys Sherlock almost more than anything else. Because Molly Hooper has the finest hands in St. Bart's, the finest hands he's ever worked with, except, perhaps, for John Watson's. Even before his Fall, even before they became friends, he recognised that she had more talent in her fingers than some twice her age.

_And that fucking bastard Ollie has caused them to develop a tremor._

_That fucking bastard Ollie has caused them to lose their steadiness, their strength. Their calm._

It is probably just as well that the afore-mentioned fucking bastard is not present, because Sherlock strongly suspects his attempt to restore balance to the universe would end up killing the git.

_And coming up with a way of getting off a murder charge would be tediously annoying, when he obviously has more important things (like Molly) to worry about._

Molly hums a hello to him as she hears the door open. She doesn't turn to look but chimes a small, "Hey," her bright, welcoming smile noticeably absent. Her eyes on the cadaver she's working on, one foot pressing absently against the opposite calf to scratch. Sherlock parks the wheelchair and pads quietly over to her. He stops a few feet from her-  _No crowding her, Sherlock,_ he hears Donovan's voice in his ear- and waits for her to look up at him. Lets her set the agenda, when all he really wants to do is shake her until her teeth rattle. When she does eventually look up he's smiling, trying to make his body language look non-threatening.  _Mary claims it makes him look like a serial-killer but it's the best that he can do_. Molly's eyes widen as she recognises him and instinctively they dart to the exit. Sherlock hates that it's the first thing which occurs to her, but he supposes he's not surprised.

"Hello, Molly," he says evenly, his hands hanging loosely beside him.

She nods but doesn't make a sound, a pulse beating sharply at her throat.

"I know you don't want to talk to me but I brought you a present," he tells her.

And with that he reaches into his rucksack and pulls a manila folder out, identical to those used in the morgue. It even says  **FOR MORGUE USE ONLY** in black letters. He holds it out to Molly and she wordlessly takes it. Her eyes don't leave his and he's not sure whether to be flattered or not.

"Don't look at that when Ollie's here," he tells her quietly. "It's not for him. And don't worry, nobody saw me come in here, you're safe-"

He turns to leave, determined to get out before he does or says something stupid and unprofitable. Before he hurts Molly any more than he already has done.

And as he does so the morgue doors swing open and Oliver James Hough, abusive partner extraordinaire, walks in, an irritated look on his face.


	7. And In Thy Wisdom Make Me Wise

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Please be aware there's some swearing in this one. But don't blame Sherlock, blame Ollie Hough, abuser extraordinaire…

**AND IN THY WISDOM MAKE ME WISE**

_He doesn't look like a monster._

It's the first thing Sherlock thinks when he lays eyes on Ollie, and he's aware that the thought is asinine. He's seen human devils aplenty in his time hunting Moriarty's network: The most dangerous of his opponents had always looked entirely ordinary, and he's not sure why he expected Oliver Hough to be any different. Even in the photos Sherlock had managed to secure, he always looked run of the mill, bordering on handsome. A face in the crowd, a man like any other. The sort of person you'd feel vaguely reassured about while standing next to him on the Tube. Somehow, in all the months he had been on this case, Sherlock had assumed it takes a special kind of nastiness to harm someone as, well, sweet, as Molly Hooper, and somehow he had thought- **hoped?** -that such viciousness would be obvious when he finally came face to face with the bastard-

But it isn't: the person before him is surprisingly average in the flesh.

Medium height, with hazel eyes and the sort of halfway-decent build you see in professionals who get their exercise twice a week at the gym. Hair, tightly curled and blond, shorn close to his skull. A bespoke, expensive shirt thrown over designer jeans the only indication that this is his day off. Everything about him screams affluence; his watch is a Rolex, the car keys he dangles from his fingers are for an Audi. Even his tan looks designer, the product of time spent sailing rather than occasional sun holidays or, heaven forbid, a tanning bed. He looks normal, respectable, solid. The sort of man a woman might look at and think  _husband material,_ the sort of trap Molly Hooper might look at and think  _sweetheart…_

And it's this thought which enrages Sherlock, more than any other. This thought which sets his hands clenching into fists, his feet carrying him a couple of steps forward before he even realises what he is about. Because this, this  _creature_  hides in plain sight, preying on the hopes of women like Molly. Preying on the fact that there are gentle, kind people in the world whom he can bully and abuse to elevate himself.  _And he has the bold-faced, idiotic audacity to stand before Sherlock now, as if he has nothing to fear from him-_

For a moment the anger is so great that Holmes can almost imagine this man's bones breaking beneath his hands, imagine it with a visceral delight he hasn't experienced since he finally put Sebastian Moran down. His mind is already brimming with concocted stories for Lestrade, stories that will explain how this moron managed to get himself beaten to within an inch of his life in the only camera blind spot in the entire morgue (the very spot Sherlock's a moment away from pushing him into). It will be so easy to punish him for what he's done to Molly. So easy to make him pay for all the months of pain and helplessness and doubt. Because by the time Sherlock's through with him he'll never even  _think_ of hurting Molly again, won't even want to go  _near_  her-

 _And he'll never let her speak to you again either,_ Donovan's voice sounds sharply in his head.

_He'll have an excuse to keep you away from her; he'll use the fact that she's angry with you over the assault to isolate her more._

_**Think** _ _, freak: it's not all about you, it's about her. You can't afford to let yourself do this._

 _Don't fall into the trap of letting this bastard become a martyr, Sherlock_.  _Molly needs you too much to do something as stupid as_ _ **that**_ _._

The adrenaline starts to slow as Sherlock lets himself remember Sally's words: They echo what everyone else involved with domestic abuse cases has told him. A moment passes, a breath is taken-

And suddenly, he can see straight again.

The haze of rage begins dissipating, leaving (admittedly cold, angry) calculation in its wake. Yes, he thinks, he can hold himself together enough not to hit this man. Yes, he can figure out a way to make this look like it's his fault and not Molly's, to let her know that he's not angry with her, not going to stop trying to help. In the split second between him taking in Hough and the other man seeing him, Sherlock lets his shoulders drop, makes himself look smaller. He  _wants_ to stand up (he's taller than Ollie) but he knows he has to keep that sort of posturing to himself for Molly's sake.  _And besides, the bastard might see him as an easy target and take a swing, something for which Sherlock will not hesitate to press charges_. So he moves so that he's right in front of the morgue camera (if Ollie's going to attack him, then it's going to be captured on film), keeping equidistant between the other man and Hooper. Letting his face curl into a petulant mask as he eyes the other man up, because, little as he likes to admit it, playing to Hough's ego is probably the best way to handle this.

"So this is him?" he says loudly, watching as recognition steals slowly over Ollie's Designer Neanderthal face. "This is the tosser who's made you think you're too good for me?"

And he makes to sweep across the room with his usual preeminence.

Having a long coat helps immeasurably with that.

Sherlock knows that it's ridiculous, knows too that Molly must be very confused- But it still only takes her a moment to realise what he's doing, and then he sees a brief look of relief enter her eyes.

"Ye-Yes, Sherlock," she says, her voice faint but getting stronger. "This is Ollie, and he's the one I- the one I want." She looks at her boyfriend, holds her hand out to him. He doesn't take it, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He- He was saying he wanted me back, Ols," she tells him. "Says that I should… That I should want him. But I told him-I told him I only want you…"

And she takes the miscreant's hand in hers, wrapping her small fingers around his big, ugly fist. Tries to smile brightly, but it doesn't touch her eyes. The effort is enough, however, the distract Hough from the manila folder Sherlock handed her, which she places unobtrusively among a pile of similar paperwork with her other hand.

 _So,_ Sherlock thinks.  _Ollie won't be getting a look at_ _ **that**_ _then._

The thought brings a tiny surge of warmth to his chest.

He's not finished though: He needs to make sure that the bastard's ego is stroked enough that he won't be suspicious, won't go asking Molly why her old friend the consulting detective was snooping around her lab. And he'd like to let her know some of what he feels about it, make sure that she understands a little of how he feels about her. He doesn't know what this git's been saying to her, but everyone he's spoken to has said that verbal bullying is part and parcel of the violence.  _Keep the victim feeling bad about themselves,_ Donovan explained,  _and they're less likely to think they deserve help. Keep them with their head down, and they won't see all the support they've got._ So before Ollie can stop him, he moves forward. Pulls Molly's hand from Hough's and takes it in his own.

A thought comes randomly, that he should do something moronic, like squeeze it, but before he can make such an idiot of himself he pushes the notion away.

"You don't have to do this, Molly," he says instead, as gently as he can. "You don't have to settle for this."

"A girl like her doesn't  _settle_ for a heart-surgeon," Ollie snaps, apparently remembering his tongue now his ego's been pricked.  _Useful piece of information, that,_ Sherlock thinks. "She might settle for the freak who talked her into faking his death, but me? Me? Six figure salary, flat in the city? More money than she ever saw in that decrepit little Whitechapel shithole that spawned her? That's not settling, dickhead.  _That's_  striking gold."

And as expected, Ollie squares up to Sherlock, despite their height difference.

He reminds the detective, in that moment, of every rugby-playing, old-boy network bully he had to deal with at school.

Since a suspicious amount of those bullies ended up expelled and injured however, (though not necessarily in that order), Sherlock feels not the slightest bit threatened. He needs only for Molly to finish this little farce, to say something scathing about him in comparison to her current beau to put him in his place. Once that happens, he will pretend to slink away and watch for her signal. At least he won't have to worry about having gotten her in trouble with Ollie The Abuser.  _At least he will know he hasn't caused more harm than good._  But though he looks at her expectantly, nothing comes, she stays silent. He stares at her, willing her to realise what was needed-  _she's normally so quick about things like this-_ but instead she just stares at Sherlock some more. For a moment the silence stretches out, his words hanging between them, tense as a plucked violin string-

And then suddenly Molly blinks, seems to recollect herself.

He sees the moment she realises what she has to do.

"You heard him,  _freak_ ," she says spitefully. "Get lost, I have a proper boyfriend now. And don't come back to the morgue again, or I'll have security throw you out."

At her words Sherlock turns on his heel, taking the image of Ollie smiling smugly and Molly watching him from beneath lowered lashes right out the door with him...

But when he comes home from a crime scene a month later and finds Molly asleep on his couch, he knows that he did the right thing that day.


	8. A Beam In Darkness: Let It Grow

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their review goes to Diana: I'm glad you're enjoying this. 

**A BEAM IN DARKNESS: LET IT GROW**

Molly Hooper is nine full inches shorter than Sherlock Holmes.

He remembers this because, when he first started coming into the morgue for cases, one of her fellow pathologists-a profoundly dull creature named Tim Jenkins- used to tease him about it. Used to accuse him of looking down her shirt from his great height whenever he singled her out as helper or assistant on his cases. The idiot had clearly had some sort of attraction to Molly, and had thus been jealous of her obvious interest in Sherlock: He was merely acting out his frustration in the most passive-aggressive way imaginable, of that the detective had had no doubt. But whatever his reasons, Holmes had eventually decided the jokes would have to stop. They were tedious and annoying and distracting, and he was worried that Ms. Hooper was going to start taking Jenkins at his word.

So to that end, one day he informed his would-be stand-up comic that not only would it takes more than "Hooper's measly bosom," to drag his mind from science, but that idiots like  _he_  were clearly far more Molly's equal and style than a gentleman like himself. Molly had taken the words better than he expected, only stepping out of the lab to "fix her makeup," a full ten minutes after everyone else had stopped yelling at him. Returning two minutes later, looking surprisingly unruffled, a slight puffiness to her cheeks the only indication of her upset. But though she appeared to weather the insult, that was the last day Sherlock saw her wear her hair up in the morgue, the last day he saw her wear makeup-

He thinks of that now, as he stares down at her, curled up on his couch.

 _She looks small. Fragile. Insignificant_.

But she is so much tougher than others give her credit for-  _And so much more deserving of kindness than the idiocy she's received in its stead._

She stirs in her sleep then, a frown puckering her brow. Before he really knows what he's doing he's sat down beside her. Hands coming to rest on the pillow at her head, his reticence to touch her not something he really understands. She frowns again, her arms curling up protectively across her chest, her knees along with them.

_Again Sherlock feels it, that… twinge within, which only seems to come to him around her._

He considers letting her return to sleep, but the thought is instantly dismissed as imbecilic: If she's here then she's probably been in some sort of altercation with the boyfriend, Sherlock thinks, and if that's the case then she will need medical aid. Though he can see no bruises, it's part of Hough's modus operendi to harm her in places which aren't routinely shown.  _And the beating must have been serious this time, if it finally prompted her to run_. Besides, what if she has a head injury? What if she's at risk of a concussion? She doesn't appear to be bleeding, but one can never be sure. He doesn't think Molly would be foolish enough to sleep in those circumstances, but if she came here in a state of shock then she might well have done so and if that's the case, he has to know it-

 _All of which means_ , he thinks darkly,  _that he's going to have to wake her._

He doesn't really want to disturb her but he knows it's for the best.

So he turns on the small lamp beside her, casting the room in warm, golden light but not brightening it so much that it will hurt her eyes on opening them.

Then he reaches down and, as un-gruffly and un-querulously as he can, gives the young woman a little shake, rousing her from her rest.

For a moment after she opens her eyes they flash wildly around the room and Sherlock can see her trying to place where she is, just as he can see her try to tamp down on her flight-or-fight response. It takes her barely a moment and then her gaze comes to focus on him, breath slowing, a small, tremulous smile darting across her lips. Her arms loosen across her chest, legs stretching out as if registering that she is with a friend, and despite himself, despite everything, Sherlock gives her a smile.  _He hopes it tells her that she is… safe with him._ Maybe it does, for she nods, moving, trying to stretch. As she shifts her t-shirt rides up on her belly and he sees a flash of mottled bruising that looks only a day old. It sits amid a bed of what look like older marks, each one placed in one of the few areas Sherlock knows nobody but Ollie or perhaps a doctor would ever see. The thought makes Sherlock grimace in anger; When she sees him looking at her Molly shyly pulls the shirt down, not as if she's afraid, he thinks, but as if... As if she's blaming herself for his reaction, and trying not to upset him. Sherlock opens his mouth to try and explain that that's not it, that she is not to make herself accountable for his feelings, but though he tries to say it, no words come to him.

 _He can't think of a way to put it that won't sound like he's reprimanding her, and Christ knows he doesn't want to do that_.

So he says nothing. She goes to sit up and Sherlock moves clumsily out of the way, trying simultaneously to stay near her and not crowd her. He remembers one of Donovan' former colleagues, Donna Bradley, explaining that often in the aftermath of an attack the victim doesn't want anyone else to initiate physical contact, how, after boundaries have been breached, it's important that the person be allowed to rebuild them in their own space and time, and in the way they choose. He tries not to remember the rest of that conversation, the way Bradley had warned him that he might also have to deal with the aftermath of a sexual assault. Rape in abusive relationships was not uncommon, and sometimes the victim in question did not even characterise it  _as_ rape. At this thought a pit of dread threatens to open in his stomach, the notion that someone could do that to Molly as distressing as the worry of what he would do if he now had to deal with it-

"Sherlock," she says quietly, "are you ok? Is- Is something the matter?"

Her voice tells him she is absolutely in earnest.

Holmes stares at this young woman, this  _friend_ , who has recently fled an abusive boyfriend and has probably just been assaulted, but who seems more concerned that  _he_ is alright, and it straightens his priorities out more thoroughly than even a dressing down from John andMrs. Hudson could have done.

He clears his throat. "Yes, Molly, I am fine," he says stiffly. "I was merely trying to make sure you were comfortable- As I understand it, I'm not supposed to crowd you."

She frowns. "Who told you that?"

"The same people who told me you might need the safety pack I gave you, the same people who told me you might need a place to stay. Your friends, Molly."

Her gaze drops to her fingers, one nail worrying the sofa's cushions. The next words are directed to it. "Then everyone knows about what's happening, don't they?" she says in a tiny voice. "Everyone knows what I- about me and Ollie, don't they?"

Sherlock gives a minute nod. "If by "everyone," you mean, me, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson and Sergeant Donovan then yes, Molly, everyone knows."

_He doesn't see the point in lying to her about that._

Her lip starts to wobble most alarmingly, eyes suddenly bright with moisture. Sherlock feels a shot of panic at the thought of her crying, but he manages to force it down.

"Then everyone I know knows that I'm an idiot…" she mutters. "Jesus, everyone knows I've been such a bloody  _moron_ …"

"No." Despite the no touching rule, Sherlock cannot let her think that. He takes her by both shoulders, gives her the tiniest little shake. It doesn't appear to register, but then, he thinks humourlessly, she's been shaken harder before. "Nobody thinks that," he tells her tightly. "Nobody is even  _contemplating_ that. We all know that the only idiot in this situation is that cretin, Hough. And if anyone wants to argue about that, they'll have to go through me. And John and Mary. And Mrs. Hudson. And Donovan, if she has her way.  _And_  half the Met, if Lestrade finds out." He lets out a long sigh, presses one hand to hers. To his relief she doesn't appear discomfited by the gesture.  _He's not entirely sure he can say the same_. "You're not alone," he tells her. "You'll never be alone in this. Do you…

Do you understand me, Molly?"

She nods slowly. "I suppose."

Sherlock shakes his head with frustration. "You must not suppose, you must understand. You must  _know._ " He stands, paces. He has to say this, wants her to understand that there are people on whom she can depend. "Nobody blames you," he tells her. "Nobody thinks you deserve this. You should be able to find a man to spend your life with and assume that he will treat you with respect-"

At his raising his voice he sees her eyes go wide. Suddenly she looks… She looks nervous. It appears she's afraid of his anger, this time. It's not surprising, really, he muses, plenty of people are scared of his temper.

He just doesn't want one of them to be her.

 _Calm,_ he reminds himself.  _Patience. This is not about_ _ **you**_ _._

He takes a deep breath, forces himself to quietness.

_Maybe if he behaves as he usually does then she will follow suit._

"I assume you have been injured," he says tightly instead, looking down his nose at her. With another woman he might worry she'd take it personally, but he suspects Molly knows him better than that.

A blush spreads over her cheeks and she nods. "You… You saw…"

He gives a brusque nod. "And is that your only area of injury, Ms. Hooper?" She worries her lip and for a moment Sherlock swears his heart skips a beat.  _Please don't tell me it's worse than that,_ he wants to say, but instantly he chides himself for so cowardly a thought.

Molly however shakes her head, her gaze dropping again. "There are other injuries, but I'd prefer…"

"You'd prefer Mary, or a female doctor, have a look at them, yes?" It's a guess but a good one and he sees her nod in relief. Despite himself he feels a small wash of happiness, that he could at least give her that. "Yes, well, I'm sure that can be arranged," he says stiffly. "I shall call John right now and ask he and his wife to come over." A pause. He's not sure how to broach the next subject.  _He supposes bluntness will have to do, it having worked so far, but he really wishes he had something else on which to call._ "And… would you like me to call the police?" he asks tightly.

Her eyes widen again. For a moment they stare at one another. Their silence is absolute.

 _And then_ …

"I-I don't know," she stammers. "I hadn't- Ollie's away for a few days, I thought I could use the time to sort my head out." She mumbles the next to her fingers. "This isn't the first time I've run away… They might not believe me because it's not..."

That's not what Sherlock wants to hear and he suspects his expression shows that, but he didn't spend all that time learning about feelings and… things, just to drop the ball now. Besides, if he were to do that then he suspects Donovan and Mary would have his head on a spike.

_And he has the disconcerting feeling that John would help._

"Yes, well, of course it's up to you," he says, trying to keep his tone reasonable. "I would just remind you that it's easier to press charges when the experience is still fresh, and the physical evidence is still extant." Her face goes paler and he softens, puffing out a breath. He doesn't want to push her too far, not with all she's been through. "It is of course your choice," he says, more quietly. "I would never presume to make it for you. But the supplies to take those samples are already here, if you want. It wouldn't… You wouldn't have to go down to the station. You could do it here." Again he clears his throat. "If you, would, um, like that."

"Would… Would you do it?"

The words sound louder than they should in the silence.

They're directed to a point somewhere at the back of his head, but Sherlock still hears them.

Again that strange pang twists in his chest.

"I would," he says evenly. "That is, if you wanted me to." Now it's his turn to direct questions to the furniture. The table the lamp's on, in his case. "Would you- That is, would that be alright with you?"

She looks up at him, the brown eyes wide and luminous. Grave, all of a sudden, and Sherlock thinks he knows why. "If  _you_ do it, then I suppose I can bear it," she all but whispers. "If you do it, it… it might be ok."

He nods. "Good. Then I'll call John, and I'll start sterilising supplies. Just give me… Just give me a few minutes."

And he walks from the room quickly, head down, agitated. As he passes her he feels her hand slide, ever so gently, up his arm, squeezing it, before dropping back to her side. When he looks back at her, her head's bent, her eyes pressed shut: she appears to be trying not to cry.

He heads out into his room, pulls out his phone but stares at it for nearly a minute before dialling the Watsons.

He is unwilling to examine his heartbeat's tenor or why he can still feel the impression of her hand upon his skin.


	9. The Praise That Comes From Constancy

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Hope everyone enjoys the next chapter, and any feedback is appreciated.

**THE PRAISE THAT COMES FROM CONSTANCY**

John and Mary arrive within the hour.

They bring with them such vital necessities as food (Chinese takeaway, kept for tomorrow), clean clothing (socks, slippers, Marks & Spencer's knickers) and- most importantly of all- they bring the  _good_  painkillers. The kind generally frowned upon in Europe. The kind John gets only because a friend of a friend brings them back every time he visits Romania.

They also bring bandages, gauze and Mary's Nikon D800e, the better to photograph Molly's injuries and detail just how badly she's been hurt- For the record.

Sherlock paces and… frets as they come in, well aware he's being ridiculous, unable to drive away the feeling that something very bad is going to happen.

He's relieved when Mary asks him can she move Molly to his room, relieved when she closes the door and he doesn't have to see the full extent of what was done to his friend.

The click of the door's latch sounds like a gunshot and then Molly is lost to his sight. As John watches Sherlock sets himself to lighting a fire in the living room grate, wanting-  _needing_ \- to have something to do to take his mind off her. The skill required to get a live fire started is almost enough to keep his mind out of the room into which the women have disappeared; Details from cases past and present are drafted in to keep his attention, lest it should wander towards Molly and her injuries again. By the time he has the blaze going high Watson's staring at him, a cup of tea at his elbow. There's a plate of biscuits too which tells him that Mrs. Hudson must have been through recently but he didn't even notice.

John puts his teacup down. "Jesus," he says quietly, "this really has you rattled, doesn't it?"

And he gestures to the chair, asking Sherlock to sit.

He's already poured him some tea.

For a moment the detective is tempted to refuse, more out of the habit of petulance than the desire for it, but he can't really see the point in doing so. Before he can sit though something sounds in his bedroom, a soft thud as if someone has tripped over, and he's on his feet and halfway to the door before he catches himself. Forces himself to sit back down, a look of chagrin on his face.

John is still staring at him.

"Rattled is as rattled does, John," he says primly, trying to find some of his usual detachment. "I have experiments in there, she might have disturbed them."

Watson cocks an eyebrow. His look might best be described as "epically unimpressed."

"Well, that's one way of saying  _I_ _'_ _m worried and I_ _'_ _m too much of a chicken to admit it,_ " he says conversationally. "Experiments in the bedroom: is that what you whacky kids are calling it these days?"

Again Sherlock opens his mouth, tempted to attempt sarcasm again, but John doesn't look like he'll be distracted by it. So he sits back down, lifts his teacup. Takes a sip.

Mrs. Hudson brought Molly's favourite biscuits, he's tempted to point out.

Watson stares at him calmly, waiting for him to begin the conversation, knowing he will, and after a long moment- a  _very_ long moment- Sherlock relents.

"She was waiting for me when I got back from the Farthingale murder scene," he begins evenly. "I found her sleeping on the sofa… I had to wake her, needed to ascertain how she has been hurt." He grimaces. "That's when I suggested we call you and Mary."

If John notices that he hasn't mentioned how he  _felt_ about finding her, he gives no notice of it, something for which Sherlock is grateful. But then he and John have known one another long enough to have no need for going on the record about such things.

"How'd she get in?" the doctor asks instead.

His tone suggests they're discussing something entirely benign. Harmless.

 _There_ _'_ _s a reason he_ _'_ _s Sherlock_ _'_ _s best friend_

Holmes clears his throat. He's tempted to lie because he suspects he'll never hear the end of this. But he finds he doesn't want to lie to Watson, not about  _her_.

"I gave her a key," he says stiffly. "The last time I was at Bart's, I left her a pack containing a key for here, travel documents. Identity papers. £20, 000 in cash and the limitless three day emergency credit-card Mycroft gave me when I first started hunting Moriarty's network, as well as a list of safe-houses she could use if she dropped my name."

He can't help a tiny twinge of satisfaction.

"I felt it was more than enough to be getting on with."

Watson's eyebrows are raised. "That's- Wow, that's a lot of stuff, Sherlock," he says. He sounds impressed. "Does Brother Dearest know you did all that for her?"

Sherlock scowls. "Yes, Mycroft knows. And if he'd just paid her the money he promised when she helped fake my death then all that wouldn't have been necessary- So he can bloody well pay up and not complain about it." And he frowns, crosses his arms over his chest in irritation.

 _It_ _'_ _s so much easier to be irritated than afraid_.

"Besides," he says, "having a brother who actually  _is_  the British government should be useful for  _something,_ don't you think?"

John chuckles. "You're right there." His expression turns sombre after a moment though. "And was she alright, when you examined her?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock frowns, directing his gaze towards the fire.

_Just for a moment he sees her bruises behind his eyes._

"I only saw a small amount of flesh," he says. "Enough to ascertain she was beaten about the stomach, repeatedly and recently." He shrugs, tries to look nonchalant.  _He is aware that he is not entirely successful in that endeavour._  "Knives and sharp objects do not appear to be part of Hough's MO, thankfully," he says. "I suppose repeated trips to the hospital for stitches would be flagged by the police and social services, which explains the lapse. And also, she might have bled to death, which would leave him with a murder charge..."

He and John both glare fiercely at the fire at that, his earlier anger once again threatening to reignite.

_He doesn't want to think the words "Molly," and "murder charge," in the same sentence, and it seems John feels the same._

The silence stretches out.

"She seemed to be uncomfortable with my seeing her injuries, so I did not press," he says eventually, taking another sip of tea. "I promised her I'd get Mary, and that I'd take the forensic samples myself, which seemed to calm her. Sally agreed to get one of the forensics team to come down and pick them up. It's just as well: I don't think Molly would go through with it if she has to go down to the station." Again, he grimaces.

"Besides, Anderson's not getting his incompetent paws anywhere  _near_ her, and neither are any of his mouth-breathing, idiot brethren. She's suffered more than enough already, without exposing her to  _that._ "

John snorts. "Don't let Donovan hear you say that."

Sherlock gestures dismissively. "The good Sergeant's done with him these three months now. Has herself a lovely young thing in the Case Progression Unit, from what she says. Good bloody riddance, as far as I'm concerned: Not even I could ever completely ascertain the reasoning behind an intelligent woman like Sally's attraction to  _Anderson.._."

John's eyes widen and he opens his mouth, doubtless to ask when Sherlock Holmes became the sort of person Sergeant Donovan talked about her love life with, but as he does the door opens and Molly and Mary walk out, arm in arm. Their heads close together as if they've been sharing confidences, and Sherlock can't help but notice that when Molly sees him staring, Mary gives her elbow the tiniest little squeeze. Nodding to her as if reminding her of some secret they share. The two women move forward slowly and as they do he notes the look Mary shoots her husband, a look he knows translates as  _you and I need to talk, darling._

Sherlock knows bloody well what Mary thinks they need to talk about, but he really can't be bothered to examine that right now.

Instead he dismisses the thought to stare at Molly. She has emerged from his room, and she appears to be… alright. Better than she was before. It's not that he didn't think she would be, it's just nice to have it confirmed; She's even smiling a little, and that has to be a good sign, he thinks. Her hair is down, her eyes on her slippers. She's wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a little, strappy top with a picture of a kitten on the front, her hands tugging uncomfortably at the t-shirt's hem. When she sees him her shoulders relax, her body sagging, as if she's found some sort of… safe point. Immediately Sherlock stands, takes his coat from where it was thrown as he entered the flat this evening. Draping it gruffly over her shoulders, buttoning it up until even her throat's covered as John and Mary watch, perturbed. He's not sure how he knows she was uncomfortable under his scrutiny-  _beautiful women usually don_ _'_ _t mind being looked at, do they?_ \- but he knows all the same, and he's willing to do something about it.

 _Take that in the eye, Ollie Hough,_ he thinks.

_It will have to do until I get something really lethal I can nail you with._

"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly says quietly then. "I- These aren't mine," and she gestures helplessly to her pyjamas.

"I know," he says curtly. "You prefer long sleeves."

"How do you kn- Oh, when you stayed with me."

 _How can her smile be so normal after what she_ _'_ _s been through?_

But he nods. "Yes. Among other things."

She smiles more widely. He does too.

To his side he hears John clear his throat and he remembers they have company; It's only then he realises that they're standing unconscionably close.

So he takes a step aside-  _no crowding her, Sherlock!_ his inner Sally Donovan tells him- and gestures to his seat beside the fireside. She sits and he finds himself plopped down beside her. Her shoulder is pressed, warm and soft, against his. She shivers and without really thinking about it Sherlock stands and shoves the sofa closer to the fire. It's not difficult-even if it looks slightly ludicrous-so he doesn't make her stand while he does it.

 _She still looks at him with wide eyes though._   _As do Mary and John_.

Once he's established that she's as near as she can get to the flames without actually catching fire he hands her one of the biscuits from his saucer before she can ask him. Stands up and fetches her a cup of tea, adding the requisite sugar and milk and then handing it back to her without saying a word. Once she's settled, he tells her, they can set about taking her forensic samples. He's already got the equipment there- he gestures to the kitchen table- but he thinks she should get warmed up first. He's afraid she's going to catch a chill. As he speaks he hears John murmur something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like  _who are you and what have you done with my best friend?_ Mary, on the other hand, merely shakes her head and throws her husband another pointed look.

 _Ignatius,_ he's tempted to tell them.  _It's **my**  middle name. Sherlock Ignatius Holmes, if you're looking for baby names._

Wisely however, Sherlock decides to ignore all of this. He's not sure sarcasm would help right now.

_And anyway, he'd much rather pay attention to Molly._

So he does just that. Trying to keep his surveillance unobtrusive, because he suspects staring will make her uncomfortable all over again. In fact, is he's being truthful, he  _knows_ it will. In his coat she appears even tinier than before, her little body swimming in the heavy woollen cloth. She seems to like it though, judging by the way she snuggles into it, and he even catches her… sniffing the fabric, as if trying to catch its scent. Again, he feels that peculiar, Molly-specific pang in his chest as he witnesses this. Again, he forces any speculation about the nature of the feeling resolutely away. He doesn't want to think about it, he tells himself, and there are more important things to which he can turn his mind right now…

_The most important, of course, being how to get Oliver Hough out of her life for good._

Eventually her shivering ceases and she stretches out her legs in front of the fire, twirling her toes and warming them. As he does so he notes the bruises marring the backs of her legs and her shins: They match the ones he noticed along her spine and shoulders when she emerged from his room. Something about that tugs at his deductive reasoning-  _It seems to get a little… sluggish, when it comes to Ms. Hooper but he's sure it will come to him in time-_ but though he tries to place it, the thought won't come to him.

So instead he waits for her to get warm and comfortable. Explains what he thinks she should do. "How do you feel about Dartmoor?" he asks her, as he hands her another biscuit. It turns out she's never been.

And so they sit together and make plans, Mary and John, Sherlock and Molly. Hooper falls asleep on the sofa, her little, bare feet warmed by Sherlock's long elegant fingers. 

_And in that moment of stillness and firelight, Oliver Hough might as well not exist at all._

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed it. As for why you didn't see Sherlock take the samples: I belatedly realised that I don't know how to take those sorts of samples. And also, I felt like I'd prefer to give Molly a bit of privacy in that, which I know sounds nutty but hey, I can't help it. I get protective of my girl. Hope you enjoyed that and that you'll like the rest. And have a great weekend. Hobbits away, hey!


	10. Oh Not For Thee The Glow, The Bloom

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**OH NOT FOR THEE THE GLOW, THE BLOOM**

Waking up the next morning is… disconcerting.

Sherlock opens his eyes to find Molly's feet still in his lap, one of his hands covering them. Warming them. This in itself surprises him: That he should be so concerned, even in sleep, is not something he would have expected of himself. Her body is turned on its side on the sofa; Her arms are crossed defensively over her chest, one hand lying looser than the other, splayed almost against the sofa cushions. As he shakes off the grogginess of waking he realises that his other hand has found its way atop Molly's loosened one, the heat of her skin warm and teasing against his palm. This too is unusual, almost as if… Almost as if he did not wish to break their contact, even in sleep.

 _Well,_ he thinks.  _That's… odd._

_Not bad, just… odd._

He frowns at the thought, stretching slightly he takes in the rest of her. The weight of her legs are… reassuring against him, the bones of her feet as fragile as a bird's beneath his fingers. The easy rhythm of her breath is soothing to his ears; Though his neck hurts- he fell asleep sitting up- the warmth of her presence takes the edge of his stiffness, the feeling of having another human being beside him far less… cumbersome, than he would have otherwise imagined.  _Far less stifling than he might have guessed_. Sherlock turns his head this way and that, working out the kinks, pressing down his shoulders. His movement must disturb her because Molly gives a little moue of distress, her brows drawing together, frowning. Eyes moving rapidly beneath her eyelids, her arms curling more tightly in on herself, as if readying herself for a blow. She gives out another little call, a shudder, her body shaking in the midst of some nightmare and for a moment Sherlock has absolutely no idea what to do, no notion of how to help her-

And then, frowning, hesitating, he reaches out and very slowly, very awkwardly, touches her hair. Strokes it. It feels very, very soft to him.

He has no idea if this will work, knows only that it used to work on  _him,_ all those years ago when he was just a small boy in a big house with nothing but Mummy and his experiments for company-

She calms, her breathing evening out. The frown marring her brow dissipating.

For a moment Sherlock stares down at her, nonplussed, unsure what he is doing.

He does not, however, take his hand away.

And he does not, however, wake her up.

He must fall back asleep after that because the second time he opens his eyes, it's to see John and Mary staring at him, still in their coats. Mrs. Hudson must have let them in, Sherlock thinks groggily, because he certainly didn't do it and John no longer has a key. As the couple exchange looks he becomes acutely aware of how… improper this must appear. Molly, asleep, Sherlock with his hands all over her. It's not like he was doing anything untoward, but he knows this must look a little… incriminating all the same.

As soon as he opens his mouth to explain this however, Molly jerks awake, his movement probably rousing her. For a moment he sees that same distress he saw last night, the siren call of her fight-or-flight response written across her form. But again when she sees him she stills. Calms herself. She smiles at him hesitantly and Sherlock smiles back. She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it, as if thinking the better of words. Instead she shakes her head to herself, going to sit up, and that's when she registers how they fell asleep.

It's also, Sherlock can see, when she registers his hands against the bare skin of her feet, her fingers.

As he might have expected, she turns bright red at the realisation.

Molly used to blush all the time when he first knew her. Her ineffectual attempts at flirting had been nothing on her blushing, in terms of tells.  _He'd known she found him physically attractive the moment she'd set eyes on him_. But this blush seems different from those earlier ones, more intimate somehow. More… inviting, maybe. Or maybe just more… his. It's like a code-word, some symbol between them. A secret. As if, though  _she_  turns red, it's somehow tied to his insides too.  _Like it's somehow part of him_. Sherlock want to scowl at that thought, knows it for the ridiculous romanticism it is. Human beings are alone in their flesh, he does not doubt this. No nuance, no connection is truly possible, save that tenuous moment when we might truly see another's darkness, another's cruelty. When we see Darwin's ape howling inside the flesh of Adam's breed.

But though he thinks this, somehow Sherlock cannot bring himself to believe it with her.

_And when he looks at her, sees the way she's staring at him, Sherlock cannot shake his absolute certainty that she… That she feels_ _**something** _ _of this too._

He is brought back from his musings by John's snort of laughter though. His friend is looking at him in amusement. "Look, Geppetto," John murmurs to his wife. "He's a real, live boy now…"

Molly winces slightly in embarrassment, averting her eyes so Sherlock answers that in the only way possible, considering.

"Get bent, short-arse," he says crisply.

He inclines his head to Mary, to show it's not just his usual morning crankiness. John chortles.

"And good morning, Mary. Lovely to see you. I trust you slept well?"

"I did. As did you, I'll warrant." Mary's eyes are amused, but Sherlock doubts she'd be so insensitive as to make her friend uncomfortable the way her husband just did.  _Really,_  he muses, _women just have so much more delicacy about these sorts of things_. And as if to prove his point she turns her back on him, not mentioning how he and Molly fell asleep. Not even grinning at Molly as she disentangles her feet from his lap, much to Sherlock's disappointment. Instead she holds out her hand to the other woman, pretending not to notice as Hooper's blush deepens.

"Come on," she says, "I told the locksmith we'd be at your place for eleven and it's nearly ten now: We'd best get moving. Those locks won't change themselves, you know." She throws a glance at her husband.

"Besides, if you want to get a bag packed for Dartmoor and make the train, it'd be best to give ourselves as much time as possible: Henry says he can't possibly get up into London before one and we don't want to keep the poor man waiting-"

Molly clambers to her feet. She's still wearing Sherlock's coat, and it's become a mass of creases and wrinkles in the night.

_She does not, however, he is pleased to note, attempt to take it off._

"Oh, of course," she says, making for Sherlock's bedroom. "Henry's the friend of Sherlock and John's, isn't he? The one who was involved with the Baskerville case?"

Mary nods, hustling her into Sherlock's bedroom.  _Which is apparently now her dressing room_ , he thinks.  _Not that he really minds_.

"The very one," she says. "And I happen to have it on good authority that he's a little bit chewy, as my old mum would say-"

Molly stops and links, halfway to the door. "A little bit chewy?" she asks. "What on Earth does  _that_ mean?"

Mary shoots her a conspiratorial smile and though the words are not said in Sherlock's direction, they are clearly aimed at him.

"It means that he's the sort of lovely young man you wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crisps," Mary tells her. "Big house in the country, nice healthy trust fund, and did I mention he works with children who've been through trauma now? Wants to give something back after the whole Baskerville thing, he says." Mary's gaze turns positively devilish. "So we'd best get you looking your best, because they do say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, Molls-"

"Mary!" Molly sounds absolutely mortified, and Sherlock will never admit it in a thousand years but he's pleased to hear it. Molly end up with someone like Henry Knight? It's absurd. He wouldn't have the first clue how to take care of her: He has the whole broken bird thing going on himself, he'd expect a woman to handle  _him_ like fine China, not the other way around. And what would they talk about? Lovely young man and all that ( _if you liked that sort of thing,_  Sherlock grudgingly admits) but he'd never be able to entertain a woman like Molly. Molly likes autopsies and figuring out how murders were committed. Molly likes people who ask for her help and treat her like she's useful, not idiotic posh boys with hang-dog expressions and disgustingly large puppy dog eyes and-

"Sherlock?" he hears John's voice intrude on his thoughts. "Sherlock, are you ok, mate?"

Holmes snaps his attention back to his best friend. It belatedly occurs to him that Molly and Mary have disappeared inside his room. "Of course I'm alright, Pinocchio," he says tartly. "Why do you ask?"

John steps closer. "Because you're squeezing that cup so tightly I'm in fear for its life, that's why."

They both look down and Sherlock realises that yes, he is indeed holding onto one of the teacups from last night unconscionably hard. A saucer too. He suspects he was originally planning on putting them in the dishwasher but things went... awry.

 _Well,_ Sherlock thinks,  _how about that?_

Before he can answer though, John leans in closer. Puts a friendly hand on Holmes' back. "Look, Mary's just teasing, mate," he says softly. "She's just trying to get a rise out of you. I've told her that you'll talk to Molly in your own time and space but she wants you to get a move on. Thinks if you do it'll get Molly over The Bastard a bit quicker-"

Sherlock's not feeling very charitable about her methods and he blames that for what he says next.

"Well, if she'd never introduced them they we wouldn't be in this mess, would we?" he bites out.

_He is well aware that it is not exactly his finest moment._

Instantly John's face goes hard. "I am going to put that statement down to worry about Molly," he says stiffly. "And since it's a product of worry about Molly, and Molly is being taken care of now, then it will not be necessary to repeat it again.  _Ever_. Is that entirely clear Sherlock?"

And he rocks back in his heels, arms crossed. Sherlock knows that look.

Mary apparently calls it the Gandalf Special: It roughly translates as  _you shall not pass._ Works on dragons, orcs, balrogs and monsters of all descriptions.

_Works on Consulting Detectives too, apparently, because, with a great deal more grace than he's feeling, Sherlock nods._

Truth be told, he has no doubt that Mary feels guilty about bringing Hough into Molly's life. He has enough regrets of his own, to recognise their presence in another. And he knows that his own quicksilver emotions are probably at the root of all this: Let him see Molly put on the train to Dartmoor and he'll feel better.  _He'll know she's safe._ Ollie's not back from his conference in Cardiff for another few days and once he is Sherlock will have the pleasure of torturing him to distract him from this topsy-turvy, whatever-the-Hell-is-going-on with-Ms.-Hooper-and-the-strange- mysterious-heart-pangs-she-causes…  _thing_.

So with as much grace as he can muster, he stands up and heads for the shower. Takes a quick one, giving Molly time to get changed before he comes out and is compelled to kick her out of their-  _ahem,_ _ **his**_ \- room. By the time he's finished she's ready to go, forcing Sherlock to get a move on if he wants to go with her. He chooses a grey charcoal suit and a matching purple shirt for no particular reason-  _and certainly not because he has noticed Molly has a certain fondness for them-_ and all but bounds out the door as the Watsons and Molly leave.

They share a cab and he makes an effort to be polite to Mary, just to show John that he can stop glaring at him.

Molly insists on sitting beside him, her hand splayed next to, but not quite touching, his during the entire ride.

The first stop is Molly's Whitechapel flat, where they pick up a bag of clothes and leave John to supervise the locksmith. The second is St. Bart's, where Mary and Sherlock flank Molly protectively as she haltingly explains to Stamford about her having to leave for a couple of weeks, and how Ollie shouldn't be let into the hospital. Stamford halts her halfway through that. "Molly," he says. "It's fine. You look after yourself: Don't worry about us, love." And he nods to Sherlock the way he nods to John when he's talking about what a wonderful doctor his wife is, setting something dark and warm and satisfied crooning in Holmes' chest.

The joy of that lasts as long as it takes them to get to Paddington Station and meet up with John again.

It lasts for as long as it takes John to hand Molly the new keys to her flat and to tell her that Henry Knight is waiting for them with Mrs. Hudson, that he's bought their tickets for the 1.32 train and is ready to go.

The warm feeling doesn't survive the wide-eyed, appreciative, slightly smitten look Henry shoots Molly when he sees her. It doesn't survive his offering to carry her bag for her.

Molly kisses Sherlock goodbye, her lips soft and dry against his cheek, her arms around his neck for a moment, and all the way back to Baker Street Sherlock wonders why it never occurred to  _him_ to offer his services as escort in Dartmoor.


	11. Thine Are These Orbs Of Light And Shade

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. A slight change of pace in this one, but necessary. Enjoy!

**THINE ARE THESE ORBS OF LIGHT AND SHADE**

The dreams start the night after she leaves for Dartmoor.

They're strange. Haunting. More like memories, but memories of things Sherlock knows have never happened.

 _Or, at least_ , he thinks,  _they have never happened to him_.

Because they're… warm. Wet. Soft. Breathing and lips and sighs and flesh against his. His flesh inside someone else's. Someone else's body making his ache with loneliness, with want. There's a press of limbs tangling together, sometimes, hair caught in his fingers. Swear words and laughter and shadows that don't feel lonely because there's someone waiting inside them for him now. Someone who's been waiting inside them all along.

In the cold light of day they're ridiculous. Risible. The product of a fevered imagination, trying to conjure the experience of something Sherlock has never actually been through- At least, not when he wasn't off his head on some substance or other, be it narcotics or alcohol or good, old-fashioned despair. But once darkness falls, they don't feel like folly anymore. Don't feel like something he has to categorise or examine. No, then they become friends. Wanted visitors. He closes his eyes and, and…he  _hopes_ for them.

He can't make them stop, and he can't properly recall them, but he knows they have something to do with Molly.

 _And like anything to do with Molly these days, he guards them jealously. Hoards them, as a dragon might hoard its trinkets, or a demon might his sins_.

He catches John looking at him sometimes, when he's heard some update or other about Molly's condition- he never asks for them himself, gets everything second-hand- and though he has often accused his friend of being stupid, he knows John has guessed something of what he's going through. But Watson never asks him and for this he is grateful.  _After all, he doesn't really know how to explain what's happening to him, and he doubts the doctor demanding an explanation would bring clarity to his state._ So for the most part he ignores the dreams, unless he's in a position to enjoy them. Goes about his plan to keep Molly safe with the minimum amount of trouble to himself and others, and the maximum amount of hassle for Ollie "The Bastard," Hough (his official title now).

So Sherlock plots, waits. Broods on things. Lets the idiot panic- as idiots often do- content in the knowledge that, however he might feel about Henry Knight and his obsequious, bag-carrying tendencies, Hough will soon be in no position to hurt Molly again thanks to Knight's help. Hough gets back from Cardiff three days after Molly departs for Dartmoor: He is surprisingly intelligent about trying to find her once he realises her clothes are gone, going to Stamford and inquiring politely whether the man knows anything about Molly leaving. Implying that they'd had some sort of lovers' quarrel before his conference and now he's afraid she's gone and done something foolish-  _Because Molly's been known to be a little flighty over men, you saw what happened with that Holmes bloke, how he sweet-talked her, didn't you?_

Thankfully Mike Stanford is no fool though and he keeps his temper, telling the other man that Molly had simply said she needed a couple of weeks off, but hadn't told him where she was spending them. She had more than three months of holiday hours' accrued, he told Hough, even with all the time she'd missed due to illness this year, and he didn't see any harm in letting her take it.  _Now._ Something about the way he'd said it had tipped Hough off that Molly had been talking to her boss, Sherlock was sure of it, but beating up a man the same size as him in front of a security camera hadn't apparently titillated Hough in the same way beating up an elfin, 5"3' woman when there were no witnesses present did, and Ollie had left St. Bart's on good terms, heading straight for Molly's family home in Whitechapel.

This was when he started being tailed by Sergeant Sally Donovan, though he wasn't to know that yet.

_Sally had yet to find a reason to kick the shit out of him, and there was no point in introducing herself, she had pointed out sensibly to Sherlock, until she did._

When Hough got to Molly's family home in Whitechapel, he found the doors locked and those locks changed. Inquiries from the neighbours told him that Molly had last been seen with her two friends, John and Mary Watson, and a "tall, skinny white boy in a long, swishy coat." Now, given that there is a dearth of tall, skinny white boys in swishy coats in Whitechapel, and given that Molly counted even fewer in her circle of acquaintance- namely, one- Ollie quickly put two and two together and got Sherlock. And since 221B Baker Street was now one of London's best-known addresses-  _Thank you, Kitty Reilly-_ Hough wasted no time in making his way to Sherlock's with the entire purpose of knocking down his door and dragging his cheating, lying, whoring girlfriend off somewhere where he could teach her the error of her ways before he knocked that bastard Holmes' teeth in-

Of course, by the time he got to Baker Street, Sherlock was ready for him.

Sally, Lestrade, the Watsons, a goodly portion of the (off-duty) Flying Squad, several neighbours and even Mrs. Turner Next Door's Married Ones were there too, bringing the count for Team Molly up into the double digits and surprising Sherlock with how many people could fit inside his front room.

When Ollie started banging on Sherlock's door, fully expecting it to be answered by a little old lady who went by the name of Mrs. Hudson, he had no idea what sort of odds he was walking into. He expected to maybe encounter Sherlock, but he was hardly the sort of physical specimen to intimidate a man who'd played rugby all the way through university and who had an orange belt in tae kwon do. But when he walked in, Sherlock was waiting for him, and he was not alone. If Ollie were to try anything violent, there'd be plenty of witnesses- And he recognised Lestrade from an appearance on  _Crimewatch,_ in which Molly had shyly pointed the grey-haired man out as her boss. So Ollie had walked slowly into the room, watching everyone but keeping his main attention on Sherlock. The detective nodded genially- he could do genial once he knew the bastard was going down- and offered him a chair.

"Can I help you with anything?" he'd inquired politely. "Tea, perhaps? Some cake? Mary baked-"

"I don't want your bloody tea, I want my girlfriend back," Hough said tightly.

He stared at the gathered guests, his expression that of a man at the end of his tether. There were actors playing in the West End who couldn't have rivalled his performance.

 _Enter heartbroken swain, stage right,_ Sherlock thought acidly.

"I know you have some sort of hold on her," Hough had said softly, his voice just the right side of devastated. "I know you have your ways of persuading her to do things, but please… I want my little Mol-Mol back…"

Sherlock had only managed to avoid snorting at this ridiculous name with a great deal of difficulty.  _Mol-Mol indeed_. She was Molly bloody Hooper, the woman who fooled MI6 into thinking he was dead for two years; she deserved better than that Godawful nickname. But though he might be thinking it, Sherlock kept his feelings in check.

He didn't want anyone in the room unable to swear in good conscience that Ollie had absolutely picked the fight with him.

"If you're looking for Ms. Hooper, then I'm afraid I've no idea where she is," he told Hough. "Gone for a holiday, as far as I know. About time: She's had a hard year, she could use a break."

Hough's expression had turned ugly. "And you would know, wouldn't you? Whispering in her ear. Poisoning her against me." He shot Sherlock a disdainful look. "Everything was fine between us until you started bothering her again. Putting ideas in her head." He poked Sherlock angrily in the chest and the detective fought down the temptation to grin gleefully.  _If Hough truly were stupid enough to take the first swing then this would be very easy indeed_. "We were happy," Ollie snapped. "We were doing well. We were talking about getting married. And then you come back into her life-" another poke to the chest, harder this time- "And suddenly she's giving me trouble, working late, spending time with that one there-"

He spit the words at Mary and instinctively John moved in front of his wife, his body language shifting defensively.

"Make one move towards my Mrs., Hough," John had snapped, "And you'll require surgery to remove my foot from your arse, you got that?"

The threat had its required effect: It turned Hough's attention from Mary.

Unfortunately however, it also served to remind him that he was in a room full of witnesses, threatening a man he believed his girlfriend was cheating on him with.

There was no way he'd come out of a physical altercation without being charged with assault, and to Sherlock's annoyance he'd seen the precise moment Hough came to that conclusion and decided to walk away from him. He saw it in the self-satisfied curl of his lip, the way the other man's eyes had narrowed. The shift from open predator the stealthy hunter, a slip which few in the room- except perhaps Sally and the Watsons- had seen. Hough had leaned into Sherlock, whispered in his ear that he knew who to watch to find Molly, and he'd better watch his back from here on in because the little bitch had made her bed and she was bloody going to lie in it-

And then Hough had sidled out the door, not having broken any rules at all, much to Sally's annoyance.

_That he had also perfectly illustrated to Sherlock why Molly would need to stay in Dartmoor indefinitely, and why he would have to stay away from her, went without saying._

That had been a month ago, and no progress with getting Molly back to London has been made since _._ She and Sherlock could text and email but even that's dangerous, and without the guarantee that she would be safe when she saw him, Sherlock can't bring himself to risk that. So he keeps his head down and waits for Hough to make a mistake he can nail him with. Even looks into framing him for a couple of things, while Sally discretely looks the other way.

And all through it, Sherlock dreams of Molly, dreams of her though the dreams never stay with him upon waking.

He'd never know it, but in Dartmoor Molly is dreaming something similar. She's dreaming, but she remembers them, and she knows what she wants now too.

The only difference is, she's gotten to the point where she's no longer willing to wait while an abusive arsehole and an over-protective detective try to decide how she should live her life- Which is what Sherlock discovers when they're finally face to face again.


	12. Her Faith Thro' Form Is Pure As Thine

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Entering the home stretch now, I know this chapter is short but a very important moment is afoot for Sherlock, and wouldn't you know, it involves his mobile phone...

**HER FAITH THRO' FORM IS PURE AS THINE**

He receives the text message at precisely 9.23am on Thursday 6th.

This means it arrives exactly one month and two days after she went to Dartmoor, and three weeks after Ollie's visit to Baker Street.

 _Am coming back this week,_ Sherlock reads.  _Have decided to press charges. Hope the offer to stay in Baker Street is still ok. MH_

Sherlock blinks at it a few times, unsure he has read it correctly. She can't mean to- It's not safe-  _What if Hough finds out she's back?_ Not that it's a case of  _if_ , but of  _when_ , Sherlock thinks angrily, standing. If the man has any sense at all- and his conduct in St. Bart's and when he visited the flat indicates that irritatingly, yes, he does- then he'll be watching out for any sign that Molly's returned to London. Given his financial resources, he's probably already watching her home: When she left for Devon Sherlock took the liberty of booking four separate hotels and hostels throughout Britain, all of them with establishments which owe him favours, and each one has gotten in touch to say that a man going by Hough's description has personally turned up on their doorsteps with a photo of Molly-

Which means he's invested time and money into finding her already.

It also means that he now knows she's actively hiding from him, and that she has financial help in doing so.

Sherlock thinks of the look Hough shot him that day in his front room, when he demanded to speak to Molly, and he has not a doubt that The Bastard knows who's bankrolling Molly's escape-

All of which means that Baker Street is the first place he'll look for her. It's the first place he'll come and it's the place he'll watch most closely, since even Ollie would allow that Molly wouldn't be foolish enough to move back into her Whitechapel house on her own. Sherlock knows he can protect her, knows he can have the place watched by his homeless network (a hundred times better as surveillance than Mycroft's boys) and that John, Mary, Donovan and the police will doubtless pick up the slack. But he can't be here all the time. Something- anything- could happen to her, and if it does it will be his fault. He hakes his head to himself at the thought, pacing, and as he does he can feel it rising within him, the fear, nauseating in its intensity. For a moment he's on the rooftop of St. Bart's again, watching a cruel, vicious monster of a man threaten the people he loves. Knowing there's only one way to save them and it comes with a blood-debt attached. For a moment he's inside the memory, the thought of it so great that it blots out everything else. The edge of the roof rising up behind his eyes, the embrace of gravity folding him in tight as he falls-

Except, just for a moment, it's not him falling, it's Molly-

 _No._ His mind simply refuses to follow that thought through.  _ **No**_ _._

He won't let that happen, he thinks. He won't.

There's only one thing he can say to Molly if she's planning on endangering herself and he says it.

 _Unacceptable,_ he texts back.  _Stay where you are._

_You can give a statement from there, someone from the Yard will come and take it._

There is a long moment as he stares at his phone, telling himself that he can assume that will be the end of the matter. That mousy little Molly Hooper will do as she's told, accept that he's right.

He should have known better.

 _That was a statement, not a request, Sherlock,_ Molly texts back.  _I'm coming back to London, and if I can't stay with you, I'll stay with John and Mary._

Sherlock stares at the phone, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's. Of all the times she's had to grow a spine, he thinks angrily, she had to choose this one? He's about to text her just that sentiment- or better yet, ring her and yell it in her ear- when the phone beeps again, indicating that he has received a picture message. He waits a moment for the image to download and then open, an image of Molly at the St. Bart's Christmas party last year, appearing before him. She's wearing a pretty, demure red dress with a sprig of tinsel in her hair- it must be the Bart's Christmas party, he can see Stamford- and she's grinning ear to ear as she toasts whoever's taking the photo. She looks… She looks happy.

Seeminlyg out of nowhere, it occurs to him that she's actually quite lovely when she's happy.

 _That's me, Sherlock,_ the attached text message reads.  _That's who I am and I want her back. But if I stay hiding in Devon, that will never happen._

_So please, help me, or I'll never really get off the Missing Persons List._

Sherlock stares at that image for a long moment, pondering her expression. Wondering why he's never seen her smile so widely, wondering why he's never seen her laugh like that. He knows he's often been cruel or dismissive of her, just as he knows- though will never admit it- that a great deal of how he interacts with her come as a result of how… unsettled she makes him feel.  _How unsettled she's always made him._ That uncomfortable pang she brings to his chest, that may be more acute now, but it has always been present. Even on her worse days, in her silly cardigans and her lopsided ponytails and her exceptionally ineffectual flirting, it had always been a part of his reaction to her, and it had always made him uncomfortable.

He didn't know what it was and he didn't know what to do about it. What to do about her **.**

 _And that,_ he must admit,  _is an excruciating feeling for a man who wants to believe he knows everything._

And so he has always told himself that they have nothing in common. Nothing to bring them together save the fact that they are both breathing vertebrates. But this- his eyes go back to the written portion of her message- this he understands. With this, he can even sympathise. He knows what it's like to want a life back, and he knows what it means to have to fight for that right. If it was anyone else, he's recommend they come back right away. Would stand with them while they faced the dragon, enjoying the thrill of combat and of a battle well met. Why should it be any different with Molly? Because he's afraid of her being hurt? He's afraid of John being hurt too, but he wouldn't ask him to hide from a fight, wouldn't even dream of it. Nor would he try it with Donovan, or Lestrade. Even Mrs. Hudson is tougher than she looks. Sally's words float back to him, as if from nowhere.  _There are only two rules, freak: Don't be an arsehole and it's not about you. Think you can get that through your skull, posh boy?_

And he can do, he knows that. He already has done.

Just as he knows that in Molly's place, he'd want to do the same.

So he takes a moment, checks the train timetables for Devon.  _There's a train from London tomorrow at 10.20,_ he texts,  _and I will be on it. I will escort you to Baker Street. Be ready. This is not a negotiation, and this is my last word on the subject._

He sends the text and a moment later his reply sounds.

_Agreed. Thank you, Sherlock._

He stares at the words for a long moment and then sends the next, his fingers moving quickly, unwilling to read it once it's typed.

_I would also like that Molly Hooper back, so there is no need to thank me._

And then he shuts the phone, puts it quite definitely in his coat pocket- where he will tell himself he did not hear its beep if Hooper answers- and then goes into the shower and scrubs himself until he can he stop thinking about Hough finding her, about what might happen when she ventures back to the capital. He does not think about the dreams he's been having. He does not remember the way it felt to watch Henry Knight stare at his Molly like some sort of hormonal, cretinous idiot.

He especially does not let himself think about how she looked in that festive little red dress.

But when he appears in Henry Knight's house the next morning and sees her, her hair washed and styled, looking pretty in jeans, a silk blouse and a pair of low-heeled boots, he has to allow that this Molly Hooper is definitely worth fighting for.

_Unfortunately for him however, he is not the only man who thinks as much._

_And he is not the only person who knows where Molly Hooper spent the last month either, as the Detective and his pathologist are soon to find out._


	13. When The Blood Creeps, And The Nerves Prick And Tingle

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**WHEN THE BLOOD CREEPS, AND THE NERVES PRICK AND TINGLE**

When he finally reaches Henry's place in Dartmoor, he finds Molly surrounded by children.

Big ones. Small ones. Loud ones. Abandoned ones, mostly, because that's what Henry Knight does now, he helps abandoned children find a home. Rude ones, entirely, judging by the way they gawp at him as he approaches, judging by the way the eldest look not the slightest bit impressed by meeting the great Sherlock Holmes.

Inwardly he grimaces: They're all disgustingly sticky with pigtails and runners and grating voices. One of them even sticks her tongue out at him, and Sherlock, paragon of maturity that he is, sticks out his tongue right back. As he strides up the drive he sees Molly, standing next to Mrs. Hudson on Henry Knight's porch, a wriggling toddler on her hip, her other hand resting lightly on her suitcase. Her black leather jacket is streaked with chocolate and biscuit crumbs, her pinned-up hair slightly loose from where someone has obviously tugged on it, and he doesn't need to be a detective to ascertain the cause: In fact, the child in question doesn't even look abashed.

_And when it sees him coming, it screams its head off._

It's this which warns her of his approach apparently and when her eyes come to rest on him they light up and she waves. The action sets something warm and pleasant and entirely too dangerous for analysis flickering within his chest, and as always when the Molly-Feeling arrives, Sherlock pushes it sternly away. As he watches she whispers something to the toddler and sets her down on Mrs. Hudson's lap, hefting her bag into her hand and starting up the garden path to meet him. Henry appears as if on cue behind her, another toddler- a slightly older boy, this time- holding onto his hand though he too leaves the child with Mrs. Hudson. Taking the bag from Molly-  _idiot,_ Sherlock thinks- and waving in greeting too. As he makes his way towards Sherlock, the detective can't help but think that he looks like some sort of Biblical paterfamilias, surrounded by doting children. Smiling the kind of smile only the truly happy or the recently lobotomised would share with the world, just as Molly is.  _Just as everyone in this bloody house seems determined to do._ In fact, Ms. Hooper looks more relaxed and happy than he's seen her in months, grinning brightly at all her charges. The children make loud groaning noises as  _she_  leaves, and it occurs to Sherlock how… comfortable she appears in this environment.

She is relaxed, content. Confident. The Molly of that Christmas picture she sent him.

The thought hits Sherlock, sharp as a dart: This is what she would want, isn't it? A house, children. A sweet-tempered man to come home to, one who'll grin at her as cloyingly as Henry's grinning now. One who won't tell her that her mouth or her breasts are too small. One who'll never make her honestly say that she, "doesn't matter."

He can't give her that, Sherlock knows. He'll never be able to give her that.

He could never bear to have such a small, warm life, he knows it as surely as he knows his own name.

 _And why the bloody Hell would you want to?_ a voice which sounds suspiciously like Mycroft chimes in his head.

 _I might want it if she wanted it,_ his own voice whispers back, though instantly he dismisses the thought as moronic.

 _Clearly,_ he tells himself,  _stupidity is becoming airborne._

_And from the looks of things, Henry Knight is patient bloody zero._

So he scowls, shifts from foot to foot impatiently. By this point Henry and Molly have reached him and Knight holds out a hand in greeting while Molly stares at him from under her lashes.  _Which is really, actually, surprisingly sort of distracting._ Sherlock forces himself to shake Henry's hand though, reminding himself that this young man has kept his friend safe for nearly a month and sheltered her from the worst of Hough's rage. His kindness is probably why she now feels strong enough to press charges, he reminds himself, and for that reason if nothing else Sherlock should make an effort to behave. So he shakes his hand, and he smiles as best he can. Molly and her lowered lashes are still distracting as Hell but he's had a lot of practice at ignoring her and that comes in handy now. Once he frees his hand from Henry's though he makes a point of taking Molly's bag from the man.

"I rather think I should be carrying that," he says.

For a second Henry frowns at him- the statement came out more forcibly than he intended- and then suddenly the other man's expression clears.

Sadness flickers momentarily on his face, but then he turns around and shoots Molly an understanding look which Sherlock likes not at all.

"Yes, I rather think you should be," he says quietly. With an obvious effort he perks up, smiles. "Though are you sure you can't be tempted in for a cuppa? I know your message said you were on a schedule, but surely that won't stop you-"

"I'm afraid we can't." Again, Sherlock is aware that his words sound more curt than they should do, but if he's going to get Molly into Baker Street and get her settled before his morning… amusements with Hough wear off and the bastard comes looking for her, then he's going to need to get her to London ASAP.

"Hough's bank accounts should come back online within the next hour," he explains, "and I'm reasonably certain the Met will have located his Audi- it's lying burnt out beside a Tesco's in Brixton- just as I'm reasonably certain the two boys I hired to steal the water-taxi he tried to take to work this morning will have been chased down by the police by now. Either that or the entire vehicle has made it up to Richmond, which will be a lovely day out for all concerned."

And he sighs, checks his watch. They really are on a schedule.

He may be imagining it, but he swears he hears Molly give the tiniest, most miniscule little snicker which makes him feel a little better about where she's spent the last month.

"So one way or the other, Henry, Hough will be back in the game very soon," he continues, " and since the train into the city centre only takes about 40 minutes-"

"-You can't come in." Henry looks disappointed but by the way her shoulders relax slightly, Sherlock can't help but suspect that Molly's a little…relieved? By this news, which makes him feel slightly better. As he watches she turns to Henry and smiles though, presses a miniscule kiss to his cheek. One of her hands rubbing gently against his chest, his heart. Though she moves to break away Henry stops her, taking that hand and squeezing it. The idiot actually kisses her bloody knuckles.

"Remember what I told you," he says, and she nods.

It is only with great difficulty that Sherlock avoids rolling his eyes heavenwards.

"I will," Molly answers. "And thanks. For everything." Again she kisses his cheek, which Sherlock happens to feel in completely unnecessary. "Now take care of Mrs. Hudson, will you, until she's ready to travel?"

And she waves to the older woman, who is still cooing at the child in her lap.

Mrs. Hudson waves back but Sherlock recognises the mischievousness in her eyes:  _She's up to something._ "Isn't she coming with us?" Sherlock asks and Molly shakes her head shyly.

"She'll be along in a few days," she murmurs. "Says the country air agrees with her. She has a hip, you know…"

And with that Molly turns on her heels and starts up the garden path towards the road, her steps light and determined. Sherlock follows after her, simultaneously relieved to be leaving Henry Knight's house and suddenly… nervous? Tongued-tied? Any and all of the above? Now that they're finally alone. As soon as they clear sight of the house he stops Molly, reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a slim gold band and holds it out to her and for some reason he resolutely will not think about, suddenly he feels a little… shy.

"Put this on," he says. Shyly.

_Now_ _**he** _ _sounds like a bloody moron._

She blinks at him. "What-Why?"

Suddenly the confident, Christmassy Molly Hooper has vacated the building.

Sherlock looks at her like she's insane.  _But then he does that with anyone who doesn't immediately do what he says._ "Because we might need to take a circuitous route back to London, and I think we need a cover story." He holds up his own hand, tugs the glove off it. He's already wearing a wedding band, he nicked it off John. "If people believe we're a couple, they won't think anything of my being with you constantly. Even if I follow you into the bathroom-"

"Are you planning on following me into the bathroom?"

"A good detective plans for all contingencies."

"Does he now?"

Her look is irritatingly sceptical.

"Look, I'm just making sure you're safe," he says. "If you insist on returning to London then you're going to have to make some allowances-"

"And one of those allowances is pretending we're married?"

He nods. "If anything happens to you, it's quicker to tell people we're, well, we're together. A couple is easier for people to understand than two friends who happen to be in the same carriage, or two strangers trying to find each other. And telling people that I have, well, a claim on you, makes everyone so much more cooperative when I'm trying to find you, for example, or if I have to get in to see you in the hospital- Not that I'll let it come to that, obviously-"

And he looks at her as honestly and blandly as he can: This is just for her protection.

When Molly seems inclined to drag her heels however he takes her hand and, without ceremony, jams the ring on her finger.

It fits, which surprises him.

_That pleases him, which surprises him more._

She goes absolutely still though, probably because he's gone and invaded her space and crossed her boundaries. Sherlock hears Sally Donovan snapping about it in his head-  _Have I taught you nothing, posh boy?-_  and instantly he realises his mistake. He's about to apologise when he realises that she isn't looking at him anymore though, she's looking over his shoulder. He turns to follow her line of sight and as he does he sees a huge blue SUV coming towards them, building up speed despite the child crossing sign now planted outside Henry Knight's gates. The car accelerates, aiming for them. The windows are tinted so he can't see the driver, but he's very little doubt about who it might be. Sherlock pushes Molly in front of him-"Get back in the house," he snarls- but even as she scrambles backwards he realises he's too late - _A car is so much faster than a person_ -

The car swerves in a spray of gravel, the door swinging open to hit him. Sherlock jumps back, already shifting his weight forwards to ram into the figure which is exiting the vehicle, but though he does so he sees the flash of a blade, the glint of it wicked in the early morning light. Molly screams his name and grabs his coat sleeve, yanking him backwards and away from the weapon. He lands messily beside her, his feet wasting a split second trying to get back under him, and that split second is all Hough-  _and it is indeed Hough_ \- needs.

The knife swings again and this time it's Molly who pushes forward. She manages to force Ollie onto his back, but unfortunately that's exactly what the bastard had planned.  _The smug smile he shoots Sherlock tells him as much._  As she lands on him Hough grabs her by her waist and hauls her bodily towards the car, smacking her around the face and head as she tries to fight back. Hissing and spitting profanities, the knife now held dangerously close to her belly even as her legs struggle and kick helplessly, trying to find purchase and get free. It happens so fast, one moment she's fighting and the next she's been thrown into the back seat, Hough sliding in beside her, the car keys in his hands. The engine screams as it takes off in another spray of gravel: Sherlock grabs onto the door, pulls, holds on, even as the car starts accelerating off-

But it's no good. It's man against machine and man will always lose that match.

 _Shit_ , he thinks.  _ **Fuck.**_ _Shit._ And then-

 _I'm going to kill him if he touches her_.

_I'm going to take my time and I'm going to make him sorry he was ever born._

Within seconds he's back in front of Henry's house, yelling for a car, telling Mrs. Hudson to call the police and then John and Sally Donovan.

Henry reappears beside him in his own car, a metal beast just as big and heavy as the one which took Sherlock's Molyl away, and without waiting for his permission Holmes jumps inside, gunning the engine, and he and Knight are off.


	14. Well Roars The Storm To Those That Hear

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**WELL ROARS THE STORM TO THOSE THAT HEAR**

It isn't difficult to figure out which way Hough went.

Nor is it difficult to catch up to him.

After all, there are few things  _less_ conducive to a high speed car chase than an English country road-

And unfortunately for Ollie, Sherlock is already familiar with the area, which will make hunting him down and cornering him like the animal he is Very. Bloody. Easy.

At the thought he accelerates faster down the road, knocking Henry back against his seat: As soon as he entered the car he scrambled over Knight and practically elbowed him out of the way, unwilling to let him drive  _his own car_ on something this important, and now he's tearing along the road, trying to catch up with Hough. Whatever his feelings on the matter, however, Henry lets him. The younger man, so sedate in his personality, doubtless knows that Sherlock is the better driver.

And besides, he's already pulled out his mobile phone.

Sherlock assumes he's calling the police.

_Sherlock assumes wrong._

"Hello, Phyllis?" he says instead, wincing as Sherlock swerves around a tractor, of all things. "I was wondering whether you could do me a small favour? Could you move that old truck of yours in front of the lead-in road to your farm, and ask Jamie and Reg to do the same with their old bangers? In fact, can you just call everyone with land between Abbeymede Road and the motorway? We've got a bit of a situation-"

A woman's voice babbles on the other end of the line, and Henry nods. "I know, but you'd really be helping me out. There's some lout up from London and I think he's going to try to drive through your back lane to get to the M5. He's got his girlfriend in the back seat- Yes, Molly, she was down the pub on Friday-"

More babbling, as Sherlock grits his teeth and quietly swears.  _It's really rather annoying, Henry doing something as useful as this_. "I know," Knight's saying, "Yes, we're passing Dewer's Lane now… If you could call the police, that'd be such a help…"

Sherlock frowns, swerving more sharply, and this time the phone is knocked out of Henry's hand. Apparently Phyllis (whoever she is) must have agreed to his request though because he doesn't try to call her back.

By this time Sherlock can see Hough's SUV in front of him, though it's going dangerously fast. As he watches it tries to turn off the road, only to suddenly stop and skid back the way it came, accelerating again.

"That's my girl, Phyllis," Henry mutters. At Sherlock's cocked eyebrow he shrugs. "The only way Hough's getting onto the M5 is if he smashes through an old hi-ace van Phyllis keeps beside her gates," he says reasonably, despite the fact that his car has just used a scant two wheels to swerve around three teenaged girls on ponies. One of them is so startled she drops her I-pod. "She must've had Adam move it as soon as I called: An SUV's tough, but I doubt it'll survive that unscathed, so Ollie's stuck on this road for now-"

"And Jamie? Reg?" Sherlock asks. "Other land-owners with access onto this road?"

Henry nods proudly. "We call it a round robin. Do it with joy-riders."

Holmes hates to say it, but he may have to allow that Henry isn't a complete idiot. "Anything for Molly," Knight adds quietly, and just like that, Sherlock's back to wanting to thump him again. And thinking he's a moron.

 _You know, you'd do anything for Molly too,_ a voice which sounds suspiciously like John's chimes in his head.  _So if_ _ **he's**_ _a moron…_

Sherlock gives the voice in his head the only pertinent answer available at the moment:  _Oh, do shut the fuck up and let me concentrate._

And concentration is needed, if he's to get Molly out of this. Were it just Hough in that car then he'd happily run it off the road, but in such a situation there would be no way to guarantee Molly's safety.  _A car crash is clearly an unacceptably dangerous way to get her back_. Hough cannot be permitted to get onto the M5, Sherlock knows this- God only knows how far he'd get, and a stand-off with the police seems eminently ill-advised- But the detective isn't sure how he can stop it. If he even had another car to help him he might be able to nudge Hough towards the Baskerville Base, somewhere Hough definitely won't be able to escape.  _Somewhere where a great many heavily armed men will stand between that bully and his Molly, where Ollie might get shot wonderfully, epically full of holes._ But all his friends are in London, all his allies. He might have some pull with Lestrade, and Henry might have some pull with his neighbours, but that doesn't mean-

And then Henry's phone rings again. Knight answers it.

Sherlock sees the younger man frown at whatever the person on the other end says, and then, to his surprise, he goes to hand Sherlock the phone. "It's for you," he says.

"Do I look like I can take a call?" Holmes demands.

They're nearly caught up on Hough at this stage, he wonders whether nudging the back bumper of Ollie's SUV with his own car might get the whole give-me-back-my-bloody-pathologist message across-  _Only one way to find out though,_ Sherlock muses, accelerating _-_

Henry shakes his head though. "He says he's your brother," he tells him. "And he also says that I'm to put the Infant Profligate on the phone, before he re-enacts another round of  _Grand Theft Auto._ I assume that's you?"

Unfortunately that does indeed sound like something Mycroft would say, so Sherlock scowls and allows that he should take this. After all, if Mycroft knows where he is and what he's doing, it's probably serious. "Hold the phone to my ear," he orders and Henry does so. "What?" he snaps, and he hears his brother's joyless laugh.

"And greetings to you too, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "I see that you've arranged another little outing to Dartmoor. Perhaps yourself and dear doctor Watson should consider a holiday home?"

Sherlock doesn't have time for this. "Look, either tell me why you're calling or I hang up-"

Again he hears the elder Holmes' cold chuckle. "Sherlock, when you hack the entire Bank of England just to interfere with one surgeon's accounts, you can't expect I won't notice-" Sherlock snorts at such a preposterous statement- "Though I must admit, having the water taxi stolen was a nice touch. Since I know however that your exploits are to do with the fair Miss Molly, might I suggest you make a slight detour?"

"Where?" Hough's SUV hasn't even slowed down as he taps the bumper of Henry's car off it.

The only thing Holmes gets for his trouble is a feminine scream, and immediately he drops back.

"There is a small side road coming up," Mycroft states calmly. "Persuade Hough to drive down it."

"I'm not endangering Molly like that," Sherlock says, even as he sees the road in question approaching.

He can practically  _see_ his brother's rolled eyes over the phone.

"Obviously you're not going to smash into him, Sherlock," he says in the martyred tone of a very tired mother charged with the care of a very hyperactive toddler. "Just force him to accelerate, and we'll do the rest."

Sherlock's about to ask who the  _we_ in question is (Mycroft is awfully fond of co-opting the royal pronoun) but even as he opens his mouth to do so a military police car pulls up beside him.

The driver tips his head to him and then takes off like a bat out of Hell, accelerating ahead of Hough and then dropping back slightly even as Sherlock follows suit. The other car expertly forcing Hough to swerve towards the road Mycroft indicated while Sherlock prevents him from turning around and driving back. Because of the angle he's been forced into, Hough must either stop the car entirely or take the road his assailant wants him to take. He opts for the latter, shooting ahead as the road widens out from the one Henry lives on and dips downwards. A smile starts tugging at Sherlock's lips: He remembers this road. It's the one that leads to the Baskerville military base. The M.O..D would have widened it to allow their trucks to pass.

As he watches he sees other indications of .M.O.D activity. The base's front gates have been scaled back since he was last here, possibly in deference to how damn scary it looked on that  _Panorama_ special the BBC aired in the wake of Henry's story. As Sherlock watches two police cars flank him, blocking the road. Meaning that Hough will not be able to suddenly stop or pull backwards without running into them, should he smell a rat and try to escape. Apparently Ollie realises that he's being cornered because he slows down a little, the driving becoming noticeably more hesitant. For a moment Sherlock thinks he'll actually do something clever for a change and give up, but just as suddenly the SUV shudders violently, nearly swerving off the road. Jouncing forward, slowing then speeding up. Slowing then speeding up again. There's a quick stop-start, as if two people are controlling the brakes, a squeal of tires which supports this-

And then the SUV's door simply flies open and Hough throws himself from the vehicle.

Hitting the ground with a sickening crack and rolling, head over heels, towards the road's green verge.

For a split second Sherlock stares, the world getting big and loud and sharp and frightening as his mind processes what Ollie has done. His eyes go to the SUV, still careening forwards, and he suddenly realises that nobody conscious could be at the wheel. The car hits the curb and bounces, crashing into the chain-link fence which lines the road leading up the Baskerville. The military vehicle which had initially forced it onto the entry road tries to brake and halt, too late, its chassis smashing headlong into the SUV's side in a near perfect illustration of a sidelong collision. Sherlock tries desperately to remember whether the fence is electrocuted, but he's already bringing Henry's car to a halt and jumping out. The two army vehicles behind him have stopped and are subduing Hough, he can concentrate on Molly now.

The steps which lead to the SUV feel like the longest he's ever taken. Sherlock has never understood the phrase "running to stand still," before- what an asinine notion- but now he understands it all too well. He doesn't really register the feel of the SUV's door handle in his hand, doesn't hear the other military personnel around him. They're yelling and what they're saying must be stupid because it doesn't seem to be about whether Molly is alright, so Sherlock's not going to listen to them. He feels a wrench in his shoulder, his palm aching and he belatedly registers that he's gotten the door open. Molly's lying across the seat like a broken doll, one of her arms at an odd angle, her breath coming in sharp, tight pants. There's blood on her face, one of her eyes is welling shut, but she looks up, straight at him, she  _sees_ him-

And then there's another hacking cough and she drops her head downwards.

Sherlock hears his voice snap, apparently of its own volition.

"Open your bloody eyes and look at me Hooper," he snarls, "you do it or I swear to Christ I'll come in there myself-"

And he shakes the door, thinks he probably shakes the  _car._

But the threat doesn't work. Nothing works. Molly's not breathing.

Sherlock's sees Hough's bloody knife, lying like a jigsaw piece, like a fragment of a sculpture, obscene beside Hooper and her broken, unbreathing body-

For a moment all is silence, rage, unknowingness.

When he is finally conscious again, three soldiers are pulling him off Hough.

A/N Please let me know what you think. This one was quite difficult to write, and I'm hoping I got the tone right. Thanks for reading hobbits away, hey!


	15. My Will Is Bondsman To The Dark

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. And a special thank you goes out to AJP910 for her medical advice: Thanks love, it was fascinating.

**MY WILL IS BONDSMAN TO THE DARK**

The book is old and worn in Sherlock's hands. Aged.  _Loved_.

The pages are written on, stained, curled at their corners from use and abuse. Showing every moment of the book's history from its being bought until now. He found it when Henry brought her bag onto the Baskerville Base, sitting on top of her clothes; An old poetry textbook, the sort that went out of use in the 1980s. The sort that contains poems more suited to a young adult than a child. It doesn't take much for Sherlock to deduce that the book was her father's- he was a secondary school teacher, Molly once told him- And since it was placed at the top of the bag, either she intended to read it on the train back to London or she was reading it the night before she left…

Sherlock looks across at the bed where she lies, so still, so unnaturally silent, and he wishes with all his heart that he could ask her which it was.

But he can't. Maybe he never will.

Because she's not awake. She hasn't been awake for four days now. She may not be awake for many more.

And even if she does wake up, even if those brown eyes flutter open and he sees that sweet smile of hers, they can't be sure- there's no way to be sure- just how long her recovery will last, or how full it will be.

He supposes it could be worse though: The only reason she's even alive is that Mycroft had a medical team scrambled when he called out the military police that day.  _And the only reason Mycroft bothered was because he thought it would be needed for_ _ **him.**_ But it was Molly who was saved: While he was screaming and raging at Hough the smallest member of the medical team, a tiny Lieutenant named Carrie Brinsley, managed to crawl inside the car and begin treating Molly's injuries. Putting pressure on the wound to her kidneys- that's where Hough stabbed her- while a small army of, well, army personnel swarmed over the vehicle and dragged her out.

She was brought straight to the base infirmary, one suspiciously well stocked for a mere military base-  _But then Sherlock supposes that the less the general population knows about injuries in Baskerville, the better their security will be._ In addition to the cuts, bruises and possible concussion from the car crash, Molly was also diagnosed with a collapsed lung, which needed to be re-inflated (the easy part, apparently) as well as a puncturing wound to her kidneys, (the hard part, according to the surgical team). A direct wound to the kidneys can cause near instant death: It used to he a particularly favoured move with Medieval assassins. But Molly's kidney was apparently nicked, not punctured-  _how wonderfully technical,_ he thinks scornfully- and she therefore bled out very little. The kidney's contents, however, started leaking into her body, causing rhabdomyolosis as urine entered the bloodstream- He can still remember watching them work over her, replacing blood and plasma, even as her body went into shock- But by that point they were already cutting her open and the work to save her had begun in earnest-

That had been four days ago, and now they're just waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

_If one more person tells him that Molly was lucky he_ _'_ _s getting on the roof with an AK47 and they can all bloody run for their lives._

"No white horse for you, Sherlock Holmes," the detective mutters to himself as he stares at Molly's body.

The book feels very heavy in his hands as he sits back down.

"You don't need a white horse, mate," he hears John's voice chime behind him. "That's what the flowy coat and the cheekbones are for."

And Watson walks into her room, a small bouquet of roses in his hand. They're white and pink- Molly's favourites- interspersed here and there with baby's breath. Sherlock doesn't need to be told they're from Mary: Everything about the bouquet is both fond and feminine.

He just wishes it didn't immediately make him think of a funeral wreath.

"Any change?" John asks him quietly then, moving to the other side of the room, emptying out the vase on the table beside Molly's head and refilling it. Binning the older flowers (daisies, from Henry) before replacing them with his own bouquet. Sherlock watches him through narrowed eyes, cataloguing his reactions.

He's talking to Sherlock as he'd talk to a patient and that's not good.

"What has happened?" Holmes asks quietly.

John at least doesn't pretend to be surprised that he's guessed.

Instead he drags the other chair in the room over to Sherlock's and sits down on it. He lowers his voice as if Molly can hear him, though there's no proof she can.

"I've been talking to Sally Donovan," he says quietly. "She wanted me to pass on what's happening with Molly's case."

And he shakes his head to himself, blowing out a puff of breath. He's readying himself for something.

 _This is not_ , Sherlock is fairly certain,  _going to be good news_.

"Bottom line, she says that she doesn't think they'll be able to get Hough for attempted murder," John begins, getting the worst out of the way as always.

It's a miniscule thing, but Sherlock's grip on the book tightens.

"The M.O.D. is going to nail him over what happened here," John says, "and he'll probably be charged with assault for what he did to her the night she left. But the CPS doesn't believe they'll be able to prove attempted murder. Manslaughter is far more likely, and even that's a stretch."

"Why?" Sherlock can't believe what he's hearing. "Because he kidnapped an innocent young woman he's been physically abusing for nearly a year, stabbed her whilst recklessly driving and then exited the vehicle, leaving her to her fate?"

His voice rises on each word. His anger feels big. Ugly.  _Unstoppable_.

John at least, does him the courtesy of not asking him to keep his voice down.

"Or is it that the Crown Prosecution Service so incompetent," he continues, "that they can't make a case stick when we have evidence that he beat her, threatened her, that he followed her all the way to Dartmoor with the sole purpose of harming her or forcing her to come back to him? What would they like, a dead body? Or are they claiming what happened to her is her fault?"

John sighs. "Hough is saying that she's the reason the car went out of control, yes. He's saying she just went nuts and started punching him-"

"Because he  _kidnapped_  her!" Sherlock snaps. "Hit her! Dragged her into the back of a car and was going to do God only knows what to her!  _Of course_ she bloody fought back, what else would you have her do?"

John holds up his hands in placation. "I know," he says quietly. " _I know_. Sally wasn't happy about it either. But you're the one who told me that less than 6% of domestic abuse cases which go to court result in a conviction: placing Ollie's actions in the context of an abusive relationship isn't possible, the law just doesn't work that way. It deals with separate incidents, not patterns, and because Molly has only reported one assault, then they can't argue escalation. She doesn't even have a restraining order against him, for God's sake. And if you take the context of their relationship out of the equation then it's her word against his, and she won't do well in that sort of situation-"

"Why?" Sherlock asks tartly.

A look passes over John's face, one he knows well.

It's the expression John wears when he's let something slip he shouldn't and it comes together instantly in Sherlock's head.

"It's because she lied on the official record," he says quietly, the breath going out of him, and he can see by John's face that he's right. "The CPS think she won't make a reliable witness because of what she did when she faked my death."

John nods. "And that's if she doesn't get stuck with some dinosaur of a judge who thinks that her boyfriend was just getting a bit of his own back on her for hightailing it off to Dartmoor with her fancy man-"

Sherlock frowns. "Henry?"

"What?"

"Her fancy-man is Henry?"

John rolls his eyes heavenwards. "No, Sherlock, her fancy-man in this scenario is  _you_. You're the one she ran to when things got rough. You're the one who gave her that bloody wedding ring. Hough's saying that you and she were having an affair-"

"That's preposterous: What on Earth would Molly want to have an affair with  _me_  for?"

Now it's John's turn to look at his friend like he's mad.

"Aside from the fact that her boyfriend's an abusive dickhead? How about the way we've all seen her looking at you? How about the fact that she's been mad about you for years?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Molly Hooper is far too clever a woman to get herself landed with me, thank you very much, John. We're- We're friends-"

His gaze drops down to the book, his voice lowering with it.

He suddenly feels very, very uncomfortable with how much he raised his voice.

"She got over that silly crush ages ago," he says quietly. "She moved on. She… I mean, that's obvious." His voice hardens.

"And even if we  _had_ been having an affair, even if we were at it like bunnies, exploring coitus through every position in the Kama bloody Sutra and beyond, it still wouldn't have been an excuse for Hough to do what he did."

"I know," John says again, more gently. "I know."

He puffs out a breath.

Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, yearns for something stronger than a cigarette, but immediately he pushes that destructive, cowardly thought down.

"So basically, Oliver Hough will be pursued more rigorously for damaging a fence on an MOD base then he will be for nearly killing someone," he says quietly.

John opens his mouth to correct him but then seems to think better of it.

Instead he nods. "Pretty much, yeah."

"And Hough will never be charged with what he actually did; The CPS will find an excuse not to pursue the manslaughter charge, the assault will be argued down to a misdemeanour and Ollie will pay a fine. Maybe go to some anger management. A slap on the wrists for all Molly's slaps to the face, yes?"

He doesn't look happy but again, John nods. "Possibly. Okay, more than likely." He places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I know it's a pisser of a situation, but we've done all we can do, mate."

"That's not good enough."

And Sherlock looks up at his friend, his eyes blazing. He can't- This can't all have been for nothing. Molly can't be lying here, nearly dead, and the man who did it to her walks free because the law is an ass and the universe is a cesspit.  _No_ , he thinks.  _Just,_ _ **no**_. He doesn't care what it takes, or what he'll have to do. He's taken the law into his own hands before, after all, when he hunted down Moriarty's network, and he can do the same again. He'll break Hough, burn him, take him apart. He'll destroy his life, piece by piece, and when there's nothing left he'll take him out for what he did to the innocent woman who trusted him with her heart. It will feel good, strong, competent.  _Like he doesn't have to be helpless anymore._ And when he's finished he'll got to Molly and he'll show her his good work, show all he's done for her service-

"I know that look," John says, "And whatever you're planning, stop it. It's not going to do Molly any good."

Sherlock blinks at him with mock-innocent eyes.  _Oh yes_ , he thinks,  _this taking back control will do nicely._

_And as for not doing Molly any good, of course it will._

"I don't know what you mean, John," he says. "I would never plot or plan-"

"-Or brood, or manipulate, or fake your own death, or hunt down Moriarty's boys, or do anything even mildly untoward." John crosses his arms over his chest. "Of course not. Perish the flippin' thought. But I know you and I know that face and I know what it means, and I'm telling you, Sherlock, that whatever you're planning, it will be more than a Bit Not Good, you got that?"

Sherlock crosses his own arms over his chest. "Why?" he demands tartly.

John leans into him. "Because, not only will murdering The Bastard possibly result in your being arrested-" Sherlock scoffs and even John looks like he agrees with him about the likelihood of  _that-_ "But you will be doing a grave disservice to Molly."

He gestures to the pathologist, there where she lies, still and unmoving on her bed.

Again Sherlock finds himself thinking her flowers look like a wreath.

"Even if she hasn't a concussion," John says, "even if the lack of oxygen when her lung was punctured didn't damage her mind, even if she has no complications from the injuries to her kidneys, she's going to need a lot of help getting her life back together, Sherlock. She's going to need a place to stay, someone to lean on. She's going to need a lot of your attention, and she's not going to be able to share you with Oliver bloody Hough." Sherlock makes to interrupt but John speaks over him.  _He really is most tediously like Mary when he makes that face._ "So before you decide to go all "Khaaannn," and Medieval on Hough's arse, have a think about who needs you most: him or Molly. And then act accordingly."

And he rocks back tartly in his seat. Makes a show of taking a Kindle out of his pocket to read.

Sherlock stares at him, surprised by his outburst, astonished that he might think Molly would want to spend time with him more than to have him punish Ollie-

But when she opens her eyes a day later and smiles at him, he belatedly allows that maybe he should ask her what she needs before he does anything… rash.

* * *

A/N A quick explanation, just in case anyone is disappointed by the content of this chapter.

The statistics quoted here are accurate: few domestic abuse charges make it to the courts, and even fewer result in criminal convictions, most are argued down and the end result is usually the abuser being community service and/or a fine. Being a celebrity liar, as Molly is in this story, shouldn't impact her credibility, but it will do, as will a woman's sexual history. (Thank you, Mr. Double Standard).

The reason I included this is that a woman in Molly's situation probably wouldn't get justice from the courts, and with cuts to social services across the board affecting Britain, as well as Ireland and other EU countries, this problem is only going to get worse.

Moreover, letting Sherlock go off on his white charger and beat Ollie up, though an attractive idea, is just going to take him away from Molly when she needs him the most. So, basically, I decided to have him be the harder type of hero to find, the one who puts his ego away and sticks around for the long haul. You might disagree with me, but for a man like Sherlock I think that's actually harder to do.

There now, hope that sheds some light. We're back to Sherlock and Molly next, so please stick with the story, and thank you for reading. Hobbits away, hey!


	16. Strange Friend, Past, Present, And To Be

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**STRANGE FRIEND, PAST, PRESENT, AND TO BE**

He doesn't really speak to her, once she arrives in Baker Street.

It's not that Sherlock ignores her, or that he doesn't  _want_  to speak to her. One of the many things he discovered during his time staying with her was that Molly is quite interesting to converse with, when she isn't so shy around you that she can barely express herself. She knows more about cadavers than anyone he's ever met, for example, and once she realised that he wasn't squeamish about the subject then she was more than happy to share her expertise, which was rather fascinating.

And it's not like she's left on her own in the flat, either, to struggle through her recovery. Mrs. Hudson finds out what her favourite foods are and buys them, makes sure that any experiments in the fridge are well-labelled and kept away from the other meat. Makes sure too that she has new bed linens and a new clothing press when she moves in ( _Sherlock shot John's one full of holes the night he returned, it's a very long story_ ) so that her clothes can be unpacked, so that she can settle in. And if Molly cries or gets upset Sherlock plays the violin. In the other room, of course, so they won't have to talk about it, though she must notice that his current practice includes at least four of her favourite pieces and he doesn't stop playing until she's calmed down. Sometimes he walks by her door and sees that it's opened, just a little wider, so he knows she's listening. Just as she knows he's only a text away if something goes wrong.

But Sherlock knows, as well as he knows anything, that he is not good with speaking about feelings, any more than he is good at feeling them, and for this reason he keeps silent.

_John is convinced his learning to do this is a sign of the coming Apocalypse, but Sherlock really hasn't it in him to care._

Because he has more important things to be getting one with. He keeps a careful eye on Molly's injuries, makes sure that she eats properly. With knife wounds- he knows from bitter experience- it's very easy to overly tax yourself and pop your stitches, and he goes out of his way to make sure that this doesn't happen. One of the earliest things he discovers is that Molly  _likes_ the flat messy: Apparently Ollie is a neatness obsessive, the sort who would measure how far apart she placed his shoes and socks in his wardrobe. She doesn't speak of it, but Sherlock suspects that there were punishments over… discrepancies, so being in a space where nothing needs to be precise makes her feel more relaxed, apparently. It also gives him an excuse to ask her not to tidy.

_And since it means he doesn't have to tidy either, well, that's what he believes John would call a win._

Sometimes however, he gets worried about his silence. He knows that she must be having trouble adjusting, and he had assumed that she would try to articulate those difficulties to him.  _But she doesn't_. Just as she doesn't tell him that she's having trouble sleeping, that she doesn't like leaving the flat unless she absolutely must.  _He notices these things, but they don't discuss it._ He speaks to her about his cases, tells her how his day has been and listens to hers… But he can't help noticing that she never mentions Ollie, or what happened to her. That her standard answer to every question regarding her wellbeing is an energetic "Fine." She tells him not to worry about her, that fuss makes her uncomfortable, and Christ knows he understands how that feels. But she never even  _tries_ to talk to him about Dartmoor, or what happened before it, and the longer the silence goes on, the less happy Sherlock becomes with it-

And then one day, about six weeks after the car crash, he comes home to find her hiding under the kitchen table, unwilling or unable to come out.

She appears to be having a panic attack.

Some part of Sherlock wants to snap at her, to demand she pull herself together and stop making him feel uncomfortably emotional, but he doesn't do that.

Instead he sits down on the floor beside her (he's too tall to fit under the kitchen table.) Moves until he's sure she'll be able to see him with her peripheral vision, and rests his arm down on the floor beside her.

"Can you take my hand, Molly?" he asks in his most conversational voice, as if he's asking her to do nothing more than pass him the TV remote control.

_If he starts sounding panicked or emotional, he's going to make her worse._

"I can't-" Her voice is thin, nearly wheezing, "I can't stop, Sherlock-"

"I'm not asking you to stop," he says reasonably, "I'm asking you to take my hand."

He waggles his fingers slightly at her, hoping to earn a small smile. A laugh.  _Anything to interrupt the flow of anxiety that's causing this._

There's a pause, a slight movement, and then her hand lands on top of his, their flesh pressed together from forearm to fingertip. She's practically vibrating, she's so upset. Sherlock laces his fingers through hers, pressing their hands, palm to palm, and when he speaks it's in that same calm, reasonable voice. He believes she finds it soothing.

"Very good, Molly," he says evenly. "Now I need you to listen to me: I'm going to breathe, and I'd like you to emulate me, alright?"

Her hand jumps in his, her voice slightly panicked. "I can't- I can't slow-"

"I'm not asking you to slow down, I'm asking you to try to do what I do."

And he takes in a very deep, very noisy breath in through his mouth, one she is sure to hear. Then another, and another, each in rapid succession. In then out, in then out, the oxygen flooding into his body. He doesn't think she can see his face, but he knows she can hear him.

_And if she's concentrating on copying him then she isn't concentrating on whatever caused the attack, or how she can't stop it._

It takes her a moment, and then he hears her begin falling into synch with him. She starts gulping in deeper breaths- the first step in fighting off a panic attack- and then, as he slows his breathing, she follows him. The stiffness in her hand softening, her body starting to relax. They keep doing that, slowing, softening, finally beginning to breathe through their noses, until Sherlock feels her hand go completely lax in his.

Once he feels that, he peeks under the table, lets her see him looking at her.

Her eyes meet his and, of course, she blushes.

"Better?" he asks quietly and she nods.

"Better." Her expression turns shy. "Thank you, Sherlock. I-" She clears her throat. "How did you know to do that?"

There are few people Sherlock would willingly give an honest answer to that question, but she is one of them. "My mother," he says quietly. "She had an anxiety disorder, amongst other things." For a moment his mind is far away. "I learned how to deal with it at a very young age."

"Oh." She clears her throat. "Well, you do it very well."

He smiles a little. "Thank you." A pause, one big and heavy with unspoken… things. Emotions and worries and whatnot. The Molly-Pang twists in his chest. And then-

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" he asks quietly.

She goes utterly still.

"You don't have to."  _I can probably deduce it from you,_ he thinks, and she must know it.

For a moment she bites her lip, her legs curling protectively in on herself. She says the next to her fingers. "Can I- Can I tell you later?" she asks timidly.

He nods. Reminds himself to be patient.

"Of course. Do you want to come out from under there?" She shakes her head, clearly expecting a fight, but he shrugs. "You're an intelligent, reasonable woman, Molly: If you want to stay under there, I don't doubt you have your reasons. Just give me a moment, yes?"

And he gets to his feet, goes into the kitchen. He knows where her secret sweets stash is-  _Of course he does_ \- and sugar would probably be a good idea after what she's just been through. He tears open a bag of Maltesers and plops them in a bowl. Puts them down beside her before heading into the living room. He picks up her laptop- the telly's too heavy- and brings it into the kitchen. Sets it down in front of her too and, once it opens, taps into her most recent files. She's been watching  _Doctor Who_ again-  _she has a fascination with the 10_ _th_ _Doctor that he really can't fathom_ \- and he brings up the last episode she watched. Turns down the lights and plops back down beside her, a sofa cushion at his back, his hands steepled before him. He has some theories about the Delille kidnapping which he would like to go over with her, he just has to bring them to the forefront of his mind-

A slight intake of breath. "Did you watch Doctor Who, when you were little?" she asks.

It's the first time since she got here that she has initiated a real conversation.

And it's the first since Dartmoor that conversation hasn't been riddled with inanities.

Sherlock blinks at her. "Yes," he says. "It was Mycroft's favourite program, when we were children."

She's studying the sweet bowl with a great deal more attention than it deserves. "And did you… Did you like it?"

Sherlock frowns at her. The non-sequitor is not what he expected but maybe he should just go with the flow.  _John says that makes it easier for people to talk._

"I did," he says. "In fact…" He purses his lips, considers for a moment whether he should continue, but… Well, he supposes he doesn't mind her knowing. "When I was about six I apparently tried to build myself a Dalek," he tells her. "Mummy was  _not_ pleased."

She gives a light, bright snort of laughter and despite himself, Sherlock grins.

"You mean, you tried to build the pepper pot suit?" she asks him.

He shakes his head. "No, apparently I wanted a real one. You know, armour-plated body outside, evil genius within. I was going to set it on Mycroft." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Truth be told, the first time I entered Baskerville Base, I was half-convinced I'd find one he'd already bred."

He laughs, but Molly doesn't follow suit. Her face has gone white again, breathing shallow: Of course, he mentioned the place where she was nearly killed, that's the sort of thing that would upset anyone.

 _Stupid,_ he thinks,  _stupid, moronic idiot, Sherlock._

But though he searches about desperately for something to say to soothe her-  _this is clearly why they should_ _ **not**_ _talk-_ after a moment her face clears slightly. She takes a deep shuddering breath, and her hand again goes out from underneath the table to rest in his. She squeezes.

"I think the Weeping Angels are far scarier than the Daleks," she says quietly. "Do you want to watch the first episode with them in?"

Sherlock nods, surprised, as she exits the episode and brings up another.

"I find them scary," she says, "because they sneak up on you without your seeing them." She looks at her lap, grimacing. "There's a lot of things in life like that."

And with that they sit down and watch what even Sherlock must admit is a bloody scary episode of  _Doctor Who_.

And once it's over, and another has been watched, and then another… Well then Molly finally tells him a little about her life with Ollie Hough, and why she's having trouble sleeping. It irritates him deeply, that The Bastard is still walking about and breathing.

But they fall asleep together, her under the table and him beside it, and Sherlock finds himself thinking that maybe this talking business isn't so bad after all- At least, so long as he lets Molly lead.


	17. The Wish Too Strong For Words To Name

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**THE WISH TOO STRONG FOR WORDS TO NAME**

It occurs to him that he should try learning about touching next.

Not in any sort of sexual way of course- those hazy, intoxicating dreams did not survive seeing her broken body in the Baskerville Infirmary- but more in a… comforting way. A comforting,  _safe_  way. A comforting, safe way that will not result in her slapping him or being traumatized.

After all, Maltesers and  _Doctor Who_ will only get him so far, particularly since he doesn't want his touching Molly to be dependant on her having a panic attack.

So Sherlock swallows his pride and does the unthinkable. He calls up John and actually asks for his input. (That word being so much more palatable than, "advice.") Watson snorts with laughter when he says it, makes him repeat it twice and then say "because you're the expert, John," before he agrees to anything-

But he does eventually agree. Even offers to have Sherlock over to his new place while they discuss it. It will be the first time Sherlock's seen the inside of the house since his return from the dead and truth be told, he's glad of the opportunity. When he arrives on his friend's doorstep however, armed with a hand-written list of pertinent questions and opens his mouth to speak…

Nothing comes out.

John blinks at him, surprised. Sherlock grimaces. Annoyance with himself, frustration, flooding through him, tying his tongue even more. He glares at his friend, can feel the deduction bubbling up in his throat, aching to pour out of him and give him back his composure-

But John holds his hand up, silencing him.

He pops outside and reappears with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, setting them down on the table before his friend and filling both glasses up. As a general rule, Sherlock doesn't often drink but he can stomach a glass of something, it will give him something to do with his hands instead of squeezing the list of questions between thumb and forefinger.

And if it should loosen his tongue then so much the better.

_He has a feeling that a loose tongue is going to be necessary for this._

A long, awkward beat.

"Alright, mate," John says quietly. "In your own time."

"Whoever else's time would I use, John?" Sherlock snaps.

Watson doesn't respond, just gives him this level, calm look that quite takes the wind out of his sails. It somehow manages to be both infuriating and reassuring.

The silence stretches out, tense as a violin string about to be plucked.

"It's about Molly," he blurts out then. It feels like his voice is being operated by someone else. It's slightly breathless, not like own at all. "I want to start touching her," it says, "and I'm afraid I'm going to make a hames of it, and she's already had that bastard Hough touching her and she's been hurt by him, and I don't want to do that too but it's not my area and really, really, I just don't want to cock it up."

He crosses his arms defensively over his chest.

He is painfully aware that he sounds like s sixteen year old boy.

"So… help me, John."  _Ahem._ "Please."

And a beat of silence ensues, even longer than the first.

Watson simply stares at him and lets him stew.

It's odd: On some level, Sherlock expects Watson to laugh at him. After all, human interaction is the one area in which the Doctor has always trumped him, and to have him admit it out loud must be quite satisfying. He even thinks it might be easier if John  _does_ laugh at him, because he knows how to laugh with John, they can be blokes together, and this all won't seem as serious and mysterious and petrifying as it currently does.  _Maybe it can even stop feeling like a moron for not knowing what to do._

But though a small smile tugs at his friend's mouth, he doesn't laugh. In fact, he doesn't seem to think this is funny at all. God knows he should be making lewd, off-colour comments by now, but he isn't.

"Why do you want to touch Molly?" he asks instead.

And he leans back, takes a sip of his wine. Watches Sherlock as he does it.

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it once, then twice, unable to properly compose an answer.

"I want to be able to make her feel better when she's upset," he says eventually. He's aware that his voice is very, very defensive. "She- She's started talking to me about what happened to her, and I want to show that she can keep talking to me about it."

He shoots John a darkly amused look.

"And since we both know the odds are not in my favour when it comes to soothing her with spoken communication, I thought perhaps that some new methodology was in order-"

Watson shrugs. "You can be charming when you want to be."

Sherlock shakes his head. The gesture is sharp, decisive. Curt. "I can be glib," he says. "False. Manipulative. She doesn't need any of that." And he takes a sip of his wine, runs his fingers around the flute's rim. The dark red liquid sloshes, bloody and viscous, against the glass. He doesn't want to look at John. "Besides, physical contact is something which Molly has always seemed to enjoy," he points out. "And I don't want what happened with Hough robbing her of that."

John looks at him shrewdly. "That might not be your call to make, Sherlock. It's up to her."

Sherlock looks at his friend like he's mad.  _It's not the first time he's done so._

" _Of course_ it's up to her," he says. "It will  _always_  be up to her. What would be the point of everything we've been through in the last year if I were to suggest it wasn't? But…" He sighs in frustration, rakes a hand through his hair.  _He's not entirely sure how to say this._  "She needs to talk, and I- I want to make her feel better." Again, the dark, pointed look. "And making people feel better is hardly my area of expertise, John. You of all people know that."

John shrugs. "I always enjoy spending time with you."

"Do you now?" Sherlock's voice is tart.

This time Watson grins. "Yeah. Might not like to admit it, but I do like spending time with you, mate." He snickers. "Besides, Mary swears living with you made me the perfect man. A saint."

"But I am not the perfect man, John," Sherlock says quietly.

He's staring into his wine glass as he says it, unwilling to look his friend in the eye.

"And I am certainly not a saint."

John's smile widens. Softens. Sherlock is automatically tempted to tell him to get bent-  _It's a matter of blokish honour-_ but he does not.

"You want to know the secret of dealing with women, Sherlock?" he says instead.

The detective snorts. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Perhaps." John leans in closer though, drops his voice. Sherlock does the same. "But the truth is, it's not very complicated. The secret to talking to a woman is much the same as the secret to talking to a man. Ask her what she wants, listen to her answers. Don't be an idiot when she tells you how she feels.

And if she looks like she might not be enjoying something then bloody well knock it off."

"Is that all?" Sherlock scoffs.

John looks at him with narrowed eyes. His gaze is… evaluating. It doesn't often happen, but Sherlock has to fight back the effort to squirm. "Yes," he says. "It is. But I don't really think a clever bloke like you needed me to tell you that." A pause. Sherlock is not very comfortable with the look in John's eye now. "You see, I don't think your question is, "how do I touch Molly?" I think your question is, "why aren't I asking Molly how I ought to touch her?""

And Watson gestures across the table, his expression open. Honest.

It belatedly occurs to Sherlock that his friend understands how hard this is for him.

"You answer that, you'll know what to do. You start asking Molly what she wants and it'll be even easier."

"It's can't be that easy," Sherlock objects. "Nothing is."

John snorts. "And what the Hell would you know about doing the easy thing? You've spent your entire life making a career out of doing things the hard way. Backwards and in heels, that's going to be written on your next tombstone. So is little Molly Hooper so much scarier than Moriarty and his network, or the hounds of Baskerville, or General Shen, or any of the other things you've faced?"

Sherlock's not proud of this answer but honesty compels him to give it.

"Yes," he says testily. "Yes, she is."

John grins at him, this bright, I-told-you-so smirk that really should be listed as justification for murder.

There are times, dark times, when he doesn't wonder whether he should have left him back in Baskerville.

Not that Watson cares. "And  _that's_ why you should talk to her," he's saying. "Because you find her scary. Because you don't know how to treat her, but you want to try all the same. Like I told Mary,  _you're turning into a real, live boy_. So go to Molly, tell her about this. Ask her what she wants you two to do together. If you manage to get through that, you won't need my help for anything, I guarantee it."

And he leans back in his chair, looking satisfied. Well, smug, sort of, but satisfied too. Sherlock knows him well enough to know that he'll not give another answer tonight unless he's hounded into it, and he doesn't want to do that.

 _He's not sure he has the energy_.

So he finishes his glass of wine and thanks his friend. Goes home to Molly, still not sure what to do. He's half tempted to just show her his list of questions, but even with John's words buzzing around his head he's still loath to do that.

She… They…  _He has a_ _ **reputation**_ _to maintain_.

And the thought of her feeling responsible for his confusion is very, very unpleasant indeed.

So he puts the list away before he heads into the flat. He finds her sitting on the sofa, reading. She's curled up beside the desk lamp, her feet tucked in under her; a fire burns merrily in the grate and it limns her profile in shadow and ochre. When he comes in she looks up and smiles, then goes back to her reading. Restful, not asking him for anything, and as happens so often these days Sherlock feels the Molly-Pang twist in his chest. But it's more than that this time, twining and knotting through his stomach, his insides. He feels so … so bloody nervous around her that he's certain he's going to snap at her, and the thought brings a twinge of horror in its wake.

So he sits down quietly beside her, leans over her to grab the coat the draped across her side of the sofa. Pulls his phone out of his coat pocket, makes a show of checking it for texts.

She blinks at him as she registers his proximity-  _is even utilitarian touch enough to make her nervous?_ \- but though she registers his nearness she doesn't pull away.

Instead she goes back to her book, her lips slowly forming the words though she does not speak them out loud. She manages to get through two more stanzas of what looks like a poem-  _not that Sherlock has been watching her lips of the shapes they make_ \- before he gets up his courage to speak. "Molly?" he says in his best, confident, I'm-The-World's-Only-Consulting-Detective-So-There voice, "I was wondering whether you could help me with something?"

She blinks gentle, brown eyes up at him. "Of course, Sherlock, what is it?"

He can feel the words on the tip of his tongue. Wanting to break free.  _I'd like to talk to you about touching,_  they say. _I'd like to discuss the appropriate ways I might initiate physical comfort-giving. I'd like to ask whether you would explain the purpose of, and then demonstrate the process of cuddling._

What comes out is, "Could you explain the difference between foreplay and hugging? I appear to be a little unclear on it. I understand one is just wetter than the other?"

Molly's eyes widen-  _in horror, Sherlock assumes_ \- her body going stock still.

And then she does something he hasn't heard her do in what seems like an age: She opens up her mouth and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.


	18. That Out Of Words A Comfort Win

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. And for those of you who've seen the trailer, #Sherlock Lives! Now on with the story, let me know what you think.

**THAT OUT OF WORDS A COMFORT WIN**

For a moment Sherlock just stares at her.

His mouth opening and closing, like a fish's. His eyes narrowed. He knows that he should be grateful she hasn't taken offence at what he said, but really? Must she laugh so?

_It's not_ _**that** _ _funny._

But be that as it may, Molly's laughter continues, ringing through the flat until she has to wipe her eyes, until she can't seem to breathe. The chair actually shaking a little beneath them with the force of her amusement. She laughs with her whole body, her shoulders shaking, her smile wide, and though he's angry about it and it's at his expense, Sherlock can't help but notice that she looks lovely when she does it.

 _More than lovely. She looks… She looks like his Molly again, not Hough's_.

"Oh Sherlock," she's saying, "Whatever are you asking me about that for?"

And she grins at him, clearly expecting him to join in on the joke. To tell her the punch-line he's working up to, to show that his is a friendly, safe question, not one fraught with mutual risk. But as soon as she looks at him she must see his embarrassment, his anger. He knows his expression borders on the thunderous but he can't seem to make it go away. Before he can say anything though, before he can lay into her in the way that his flustered ego demands, the laughter stops.

The silence is surprisingly loud.

She reaches out and places one small, comforting hand on his arm. "Oh," she says, and it's not an oh of surprise but of understanding. Of apology. " _Oh_. You- You were serious, weren't you?"

He manages to give a brief, curt nod-  _it would be unwise of him to speak right now_ \- not taking his gaze off her. She's worrying her lip.

"But why would you-?" And he sees realisation flit across her features. He's glad, because he's not sure his pride will survive having to begin this conversation from scratch. "Oh," she says again. "Oh, oh, of course. I should have- I just didn't think she'd come back to London so soon…"

Sherlock frowns.  _What on Earth is she on about?_ he thinks.

"What on Earth are you on about?" he says.

Molly looks away from him, still worrying her lip. "Ms. Adler," she says quietly. "The Woman, isn't that what you call her?" She shrugs, gives his hand what he believes is meant to be a comforting squeeze. There is tension in her frame-  _she's not nearly as blasé about this as she's pretending_ \- but she still gives him a sympathetic smile.

"I just didn't think she'd come back to London so soon," she's saying. "Or are you going to see her? Is that why you're asking my advice? Do you- Do you need me to clear out to Mary and John's for a while..?"

Sherlock shakes his head, confused.  _Which isn't something that happens to him very often, so he's not exactly adept at dealing with it_. "Why are you talking to me about Irene Adler?" he asks her. "Come to think of it, how do you even  _know_  about Irene Adler?"

Molly's voice is reticent. "She got in touch after you died. Asked to meet me. She wanted to see your body but by that time you'd been "dead," for a month and another corpse was in your coffin. I couldn't help her."

Sherlock feels like his head's spinning. "And from that you extrapolate her coming back here and my abandoning you for her?"

Molly crosses her arms, irritated now. "You wouldn't be abandoning me, Sherlock," she points out. "I'm a grown woman, I don't need to hide behind you and your big, swishy coat-"

Sherlock crosses his arms in annoyance, mirroring her. "First of all, leave the Belstaff out of this," he bites out testily. "It takes enough abuse as it is. And secondly, I'm not suggesting you hide behind my coat, as you put it, or anything else of mine. I'm just intrigued as to why you think I would go chasing after a dominatrix, and I'd ask  _you_  for tips about it."

Molly's expression turns mulish.

It's…  _Well, it's quite disconcertingly attractive, actually_.

"I thought you were asking for my help with… pleasing her," she snaps (or as close to snapping as Molly ever gets). "Most men never bother to ask a woman about, about stuff like that, and they end up not knowing a bloody thing about what to do when they're down there, or how anything actually works, so I thought you asking was actually quite, well, quite chivalrous, actually."

And she turns away from him, her lip jutting out in something that looks… That looks intriguingly like a pout. It is also rather disconcertingly attractive.

 _Not that Sherlock can concentrate on_ _ **that**_.

"So you think I'm being chivalrous, asking  _you_ for sex tips?" he demands instead.

He can't believe what he's hearing.

She snorts, sounding remarkably like Mary. "I think you asking anyone for advice is one of the signs of the Apocalypse," she retorts, "but I suppose I thought maybe you had changed-"

"I  _have_  changed," he snaps. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Not if you still react to being questioned like this, you haven't."

Sherlock can feel his own annoyance, caged for so long to keep her comfortable, scrambling to the surface.

He doesn't want it to come out, but for once he's not sure he can hold it in check.

"Oh," he hisses, "and how precisely do you think a grown man should react to having to ask someone else how to do something which the entire rest of his species- imbeciles, all- apparently manages without any trouble, but which he seems about as capable of performing as a monkey trying to drive a Jaguar?"

Molly opens her mouth to answer but he speaks over her.

Now his voice has gotten going, it seems disinclined to stop.

"And how do you think I ought to react to knowing I have someone in my home who needs me to learn at least basic, human physical communication, before I do something idiotic and embarrassing which will remind her of the abusive miscreant she's just left?"

He sees Molly's eyes widen, her mouth making a small moue of understanding. He's so riled up by the trajectory of this conversation though that now he  _knows_ he can't stop.

"And what would you have me ask her, when I don't even know  _how_  to ask her and I've never had to ask anyone about advice in this area before?" he demands. "What would you have me do, Molly? What would you have me say to her? Hmm?"

She leans away from him, her expression embarrassed but determined.

Her hands flutter around her before she cages them together in her lap.

"I'd have you lead with that bloody statement, for a start," she says quietly. "And then explain that you're acting like an idiot because I've made you uncomfortable but you're actually trying to help. That's what I would have you do, Sherlock."

And just like that, the bubble of his anger pops.

He blinks at her, surprised, a little out of breath.

He's been holding onto his temper so hard around her and for so long that there's a strange giddiness in letting it go. A strange lightness of being that he hasn't felt in months. Molly is staring at him, her expression somewhere between obstinate and shy, her body bowed slightly as if she too has crossed the cusp of her annoyance and found herself somewhere else. Somewhere she doesn't mind, by the looks of things.

The two stare at one another for a long, long time, until finally Molly speaks.

"Is that true?" she asks quietly, and it's odd, her voice is scratchy, almost like… Almost like she's feeling emotional.

Sherlock nods, a sudden pang of fear moving through him that he's upset her, but when she looks him in the eyes her expression is calm.

"And were you… I mean, why did you ask me about foreplay? If you were trying to figure out how to- to touch me? Comfort me?"

"Comfort you," Sherlock nods. "I was trying to work out how to comfort you. And as for asking about foreplay… I was nervous. I- Look, people really aren't my area, not unless they're doing something criminal, and I got nervous. Alright?"

And he shrugs, stares rather more pointedly at the sofa cushion beside her than the object deserves. For once he can't stand the silence, he has to fill it.

"I thought- Well, I open my mouth around you and I put my foot in it," he says. "I always have the best intentions, and they always head for the hills once my vocal chords become engaged. Tonight's just another winning example. But..." He sighs. Grimaces.  _This is the hard part._ "You've been through so much, I don't want to do make it worse." He looks up at her suddenly, fiercely. "I will  _never_ hear you honestly say that you don't matter to me again. Never. So I thought… Well, I thought nonverbal communication might be a better fit than trusting your well-being to my manners. I mean, physical communication is easier to learn, I can do things like make myself look intimidating or insignificant, why not learn that too..?"

And he trails off when he sees Molly looking at him.

Her expression isn't one he's willing to decipher.

For a moment she just stares at him and there's nothing he can say, nothing he can do for her-

And then, very quietly, she leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her lips are very gentle, almost tickling, and very warm.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she says quietly. "Thank you for um, you know. Being willing to learn this for me."

He shrugs roughly, looks at the ground. Suddenly he feels toe-curlingly uncomfortable in his own skin. "Might turn out to be a good idea," he points out gruffly. "Might mean I get punched less- And do less punching too."

Molly chuckles. "We can only hope. But what we're going to do together, I doubt you'll want to try with the average criminal mastermind." And there's something new in her voice as she says this, something lower, almost throaty.

It causes the most remarkable reaction to the hairs on the back of his neck.

Not that he's going to concentrate on  _that_ either. Instead, Sherlock decides to focus on the fact that he now understands why making a joke about Moriarty and the things Molly has previously done with criminal masterminds is a bad idea.  _Small victories, and all that._

"Yes, well, do let's get on then," he says primly, after a moment. "We can discuss… We can discuss what would be helpful and what you would prefer I didn't do now. And as for the other- I suppose the reason I mentioned foreplay is because I don't want anything I do to you giving you the impression I expect… coitus." Again he stares at the cushion. "Which I don't."

Molly snorts. "You can expect it all you want," she says, "there's no way you're getting it."

Sherlock opens his mouth to contradict her, but the small, devilish smile she's wearing tells him that she's joking.

That smile also, like the lower tone of her voice, sends something electric through the nerve endings at the nape of his neck.

"Yes, well, then coitus is obviously off the table," he rumbles. He's…  _Good God, is_ _ **he**_ _blushing this time?_

Molly's small smile gets a little more wicked. He  _is_ blushing.

"How about shagging?" she inquires innocently.

_Sherlock can tell by the look on her face that she's just trying to wind him up._

"That too," he says dryly.

Molly's smile is getting wider. Cheekier. He could get used to seeing her like this. "How about having sex?" she asks him. "Screwing? Humping? Bonking? Jumping each other's bones? Making the beast with two backs? Getting our collective ends away? Going on the annual Baker Street sausage hunt?" He snorts aloud at that and she grins proudly. "No?"

This time he knows he's blushing- Em, smiling.  _Definitely smiling._ "No, Molly," he says. "No, no and no."

She makes a show of sighing.  _A_   _great deal of this is to set him back at his ease, Sherlock is sure._ "So no getting my leg over?" she asks sweetly.

She's biting the side of her cheek as she says it, her eyes brighter and merrier than he's seen them in a year.

Sherlock's tempted to tell her that yes, she is indeed allowed to get her leg over, just to see what answer she gives him-

But as he opens his mouth to say so, he suddenly registers just how near she's gotten. How close. She's somehow managed to make her way to his side from the opposite end of the couch, like a sweet, charming, utterly harmless-looking Weeping Angel, and now she's- Another inch or two and she'll be either on his lap or his knee. Maybe both.

He does not gulp at this realisation.  _He doesn't._

She sees him register what she's done though and she smiles. Nods. The wickedness lessens though it doesn't disappear entirely.

"See?" she says softly. "When you're not so worked up, physical interaction isn't that difficult, is it?"

He shakes his head at her. "But the point is to be able to do it when you're so upset you can't distract me, Molly."

Something soft moves through Molly's features, something gentle Sherlock tells himself he hasn't a name for.

"Then let's start figuring out how we're going to do this," Molly says, no joking in her tone now. "For both our sakes."

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment, nonplussed, and then slowly, hesitantly opens his arms to her. It's a great deal more uncomfortable when she's not telling jokes but he makes himself do it all the same. "What do you want to do to me?" he asks quietly, and that softness in her hardens somehow, darkens at his words. It feels... It feels quietly electric.

Molly moves towards him. She enters the circle of his arms willingly. The embrace is awkward but fond, as his arms close around her.

A beat stretches out before them.

"Let's start from here," she says simply, and they do.

_It's the start of more than either of them know, but they will end up glad of it._


	19. All-Comprehensive Tenderness

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**ALL-COMPREHENSIVE TENDERNESS, ALL-SUBTILISING INTELLECT**

_Things... **mean**  things now, with Molly._

Not that- Well, things always meant things with Molly. And John. And well, everyone. Human beings by their very nature create meaning in randomness, see links which may not really be there. That he is seldom on the receiving end of such coincidence doesn't mean that Sherlock doesn't understand how usual it is. It is the very lifeblood of the human condition, this capacity to wilfully eschew or else misapply meaning to an action, a word, a gesture. A moment. The capacity to lie to oneself and others about the true nature of the world is probably how we have survived as a species, but that doesn't mean it's not dangerous or asinine. In fact, it is one of the things he has always disliked about his fellow humans, and about their messy, overweening emotions, is that they are chancy. Risky. Laden with misunderstanding.

Sherlock is never as certain of his fellow creatures' motivations as he is of the observations he makes about them, and for that reason he does not like to factor human feeling into anything he does.

But he finds that, with Molly, the process isn't nearly as… messy as he might have thought. In fact, with Molly it seems downright straightforward.

And so things between them can mean things now. Good things. Helpful things. Comforting things.

They can communicate physically in a way which is both satisfactory to Molly and is not overwhelmingly emotive to him and for that he is…grateful.

 _Yes,_ he tells himself sternly.  _Grateful is precisely how he feels…_ _ **All**_ _he feels…_

_He's not entirely certain why he but every time he thinks that, he hears John Watson chortling in his head._

Not that he focuses on that, even though some nagging part of his mind tells himself he should. Because he has a job to do, and he is nothing if not goal-orientated, when he has set himself a task. Of course, it does help that he is dealing with  _Molly_. Clever, lovely, down-to-Earth Molly, who does not make demands or assume and rarely does anything irritating the way most people do. After that first night when he so colourfully asked for her advice she sat him down and asked him what would be easiest for him. Not in some patronising way, or in a way that suggested she still thought her own needs weren't important-  _I don't matter, it's still going around in his head-_ But in a more matter-of-fact way. A way that told him she was interested in both their parts in the process.

"I understand, Sherlock," she'd told him. "You're trying to do something very difficult for you, and you're doing it for me. So how about you tell me what you need, and I tell you what I need, and then… Then we just take it from there?"

And she'd gazed up at him from her place in his embrace, her lashes nearly brushing his chin, her skin soft. Flushed. Warm against his own. Her finger tracing a figure out eight against his forearm, the touch teasing through the fabric, and when he'd felt that the Molly-pang twisted in his chest as sharply as any knife-wound. It really was quite inexplicable, the mixture of pain, breathlessness and… anticipation? Excitement? Which he'd felt at her look. At her touch.

In fact, it was so inexplicable that he'd been tempted to ask whether she would remove herself from his awkward embrace until he could be sure that comforting her was all that was on his mind.

But he hadn't. Sherlock knows he is many things, but a coward is not among them. And besides, he'd been afraid that if he stopped talking about how they might… comfort one another, then he'd never have the strength to try opening the dialogue again. So he'd cleared his throat and willed his heartbeat to steadiness. Told himself to remember who was in his arms and how much she was relying on him. He found that that did actually help him centre his thoughts.

"I have been giving the matter much thought," he'd said, "And what I would like to do is, ahem, discuss what different gestures mean. Before we do them."

She'd blinked at him. "How so?"

He gestured roughly to their state with his hand. "Like this, for example. We are sitting with your back against my chest, and one of my arms is around your waist. When I stop gesticulating I shall place my other arm around you too, and both of my hands will make contact with your hips. Your head is at a 30 degree angle from my own and we are both fully clothed: I would characterise this position as comforting and friendly. Would… Would that be right?"

And he'd waited, hoping that she would agree with him.

Molly had blinked at him again, smiling this time, and he had his answer.

"Yes, I suppose that's what I'd call it," she'd said. "I'd say fond, and comforting, and, well, safe-" At this she had blushed and the Molly-Pang had twisted even more sharply in his chest- "But that would about cover it." She had paused for a moment, biting her lip. She seemed to be mulling over something. "Would you like to try some other positions, and have us decide what they mean?" she'd asked in a quiet voice and Sherlock had nodded, relieved that she'd said it.

 _It had been precisely what he wanted_.

"Yes," he'd said gravely. "That would… That would be very helpful. I oftentimes have trouble interpreting how my own behaviour is perceived, and I do not wish to alarm or discomfit you."

Molly had smiled and changed their position, pulling him to his feet by his hand and grinning more widely at him. She'd held out her arms, her eyebrows raised in encouragement, and after a moment Sherlock had taken the hint and stepped closer, closing his arms around her body in a hug. He had to lean down quite a bit to do it-  _nine inches is a lot when you're embracing someone_ \- but after a moment Molly had stepped onto his feet, giving herself a little lift and bringing her more closely into contact with him.

It was easier to hold her like that, and it felt… nicer to have her that bit nearer.

"Is this also fond and comforting?" Sherlock had asked quietly, and she'd nodded.

"Is it also… safe?" he'd continued, and she'd nodded again.

As she did so he felt some tension, some worry he'd been carrying since the night she first ran away from Hough loosen in his chest, and he'd felt the better for it.

"Then I think we should try some more positions," he'd said, and Molly had agreed.

In the end they tried everything from embracing to light touching to what Molly called "cuddling." From what she could explain to Sherlock, the difference between hugging and cuddling wasn't actually wetness, but how tightly you held someone, and how much emotion you put into the gesture. This notion alone had given Sherlock pause, and she had instantly said that it would be unnecessary, since it made him so uncomfortable.  _Sherlock had suspected that if it became necessary, then he would be able to carry it off, though he was grateful for the option to opt out_. They discussed basic touches, the way she oftentimes brushed her hand against his when he handed her a cup of tea for example. While he knew this as a quick method to establish rapport or fool someone into thinking you were attracted to them, Molly knew it as a way of showing you liked having someone near.

"I like you, that means. I want you here." And she'd smiled at him.

His hand had glided up to her cheek at that, as if by its own volition, and as soon as he'd done it, Sherlock had known  _that_ touch meant something else. Instantly he'd moved his hand away. "Forgive me," he'd said. "That was inappropriate."

For a moment he'd thought Molly would argue but then her expression turned inwards. "Quite," she'd said, and that was all she'd venture on the subject.

It had left Sherlock feeling oddly… bereft.

Not that he had allowed the incident to slow him down for long. It was really quite fascinating, like hearing someone try to explain concepts in another language, and by the time the evening was through he and she had a "vocabulary," of five basic movements which were safe, understood and could be initiated by either party in the house. All of them meant  _it's alright, you're safe now_ and  _I am here._ There were a couple of things which Sherlock suspected only he would end up doing: The likelihood of Molly having to hold him and stroke his hair when he'd had a flashback to Ollie Hough beating him up was relatively slim, after all. But at least he now knew what to do should that happen. And he knew that Molly would not be hurt or confused by any of his actions.

Why he felt such panic at Molly thinking he might be trying to do something other than comfort her, he couldn't say.

He knew only that as soon as he imagined touching her-  _and he imagined it a great deal more than he thought he should do_ \- he immediately remembered her body, lying in the Baskerville Infirmary, and instantly the desire for contact departed.

And so he and Molly now have their new relationship, their new understanding. Everyone has noticed it, though only John has had had the audacity to ask him about it out loud. The day it happens, Sherlock proudly explains the vocabulary, and how he'd spoken to Molly and what they'd agreed to.

At first John looks alarmed- "You asked her  _what_ about foreplay?"- but though he seems a little worried for Molly's welfare, he soon sees that their method works.

In fact, he whispers to his friend that he's proud of him when he witnesses Sherlock and his pathologist share what amounts to a three minute conversation without saying a word to one another.

It starts innocently enough: Molly opens her post to find notice that she may be called as witness to Ollie's M.O.D. hearing and she immediately goes pale. As soon as he sees it, Sherlock walks over to her, assesses the situation. She's upset, biting her lip, shaking. The severity's about a seven and whatever is in that letter is clearly to blame. He takes it gently from her grasp- she doesn't want to let go- and scans it before placing it on the kitchen table. Reaching out his arms and taking her by the elbows, pulling her close until she steps onto his feet and he can put his arms around her properly.

He tightens his arms- this is important, apparently, it shows emotional engagement- and then tucks her head underneath his chin. Walks her backwards and then picks her up, sits her on the kitchen table. Goes to make her a cup of tea, making sure that he is visible to her at all times- this is also apparently something which shows emotional engagement- while continuing to talk genially to John. He smiles at her, shows her she has his attention: He does not ignore John however because that will alarm them both. When he has the tea ready he hands it straight to her, putting it in a mug she can wrap her hands around. The warmth is also important for her hands, it will stave off the worst of her cold. By the time she's sipping she's stopped shaking and John is looking at him like he's a being from another planet.

"I told you, John," Sherlock says, "We have a system."

Molly smiles. "We do," she says quietly.

"I believe you," Watson responds, looking in wonder at a now much-recovered Molly. He shakes his head, mutters something under his breath as he moves into the next room. It sounds to Sherlock like his best friend just called him a "Hooper-sexual," whatever that means. But be that as it may, Sherlock stays with Molly, calming her. Making sure she's alright before he and John head off to the triple homicide Lestrade wants them on in Chelsea.

It doesn't occur to them to be worried that Hough's solicitor knew to send Molly's correspondence to Baker Street. She's been there three months now.

Just like it doesn't occur to them that there might still be more than Sherlock's homeless network watching Molly close the door and head to work.

But when they come back that evening, they discover that there is a great deal to worry about.

Because when they come back that evening, a message is waiting for Molly on the front step.


	20. My Sudden Frost Was Sudden Gain

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their review goes to Angryangryowl: Glad you're enjoying it, love. And now, on with the story...

**MY SUDDEN FROST WAS SUDDEN GAIN**

The doll looks like it belongs in a dolls house.

It is two inches, maybe two and a half, in height. Cheap. Generic. A Chinese knock-off of a Western toy. It has light brown hair. Brown eyes. Wears what looks like a miniscule white lab-coat.

It is missing one of its hands, the plastic split as cleanly as human flesh would be by a scalpel.

Someone has carefully pinned a little note saying "whore," to its chest, the letters printed in red, and that same someone has also blue-tacked it to the front door of 221B Baker Street in the time it takes Sherlock to solve the Tietjens' triple homicide in Chelsea and come home.

_Needless to say, that someone has just made an enemy for life._

Sherlock slows as he comes to the door, John at his heels. Stares at the object. "Text Molly," he says quietly to John. His tone brooks no disagreement. "Invite her around to yours and Mary's for dinner."

"I'm not your- Bloody Hell." John comes to a stop in front of the door, stares at the doll. "Is that-?"

"We don't know what it is, John." Sherlock says the words tightly. He's fishing in his pocket for his keys. He needs to get into his Lab, needs to get to some sterile equipment before he can collect and examine the object. "Now invite Molly to your place for tea. I don't want her seeing-"

"Seeing what?"

And both Sherlock and John turn around to see Molly grinning brightly at them. She's wearing a new pair of jeans and a new jacket, and by the looks of things she's even had her hair cut. She looks… She looks like the woman Sherlock remembers sharing a flat with during his Great Hiatus, and the thought does something unhelpful and peculiar to his insides.

_He really doesn't want her seeing this._

But before he can move her, before he can bamboozle her into going to the Watsons', her gaze moves past him to the building's front door. Her eyes narrow in on the doll and she moves closer. He tries to stop her, but all he succeeds in doing is touching her wrist. Holding it. He knows the only way to stop her is to use force, and Christ knows he doesn't want to do that. So he lets her get closer. Sees her eyes widen as she reads the sign, sees the colour drain from her face. She starts shaking even before he can get close enough to embrace her, her mouth opening and closing as if she's trying to talk, but no words come out. None. None.  _None at all._ Her eyes are shining, her lashes wet. Sherlock can feel her pulse hammering against his thumb and forefinger.

From behind him he can hear John talking to someone and he belatedly realises he's calling Lestrade.

He can hear the Doctor speaking quietly, describing the scene, even as Molly goes to pieces in his arms.

She's not talking, she's shaking, too upset to even form words, and he tries to remember everything she told him about comfort, about touching, because she needs it, she needs him to do this for her. So he holds her as tight as he can, rocks her slightly.  _I am here,_ this position means. She promised him that's what it means.  _I am here, I am here, my Molly, you are safe with me-_

But he doubts that she feels safe right now, and he hates that he can't bring himself to disagree.

They can't stay like this however, not out in the street. For all he knows Hough is watching them- He forces himself to look up, to discretely scan the faces around him, but there are few pedestrians, none of whom look like they could by Hough in disguise, and none of whom appear to be paying any attention to he and Molly, let alone gloating at her reaction.  _Still, he'll need to check for himself._

John must realise what he's doing because he reaches down, tries to take Molly's keys from her fingers to open the door. They tighten instinctively and Sherlock reaches down instead, finds them. He says her name, very quietly, and her hands loosen for him. He hands the keys to John and the other man opens the door, heads straight up to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Sherlock tightens his fingers around Molly's and leads her inside.

He manages to coax her into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, manages to get a cup of tea into her hands and something from John's medicine cabinet into her veins before heading back onto the street. A moment later John joins him, his posture angry. Stiff. He hands Sherlock a pair of latex gloves and a sterile baggie, the sort they use in forensics; Holmes has a good stockpile, he arranges for Anderson's Met supplies to be redirected to Baker Street whenever the forensics tech annoys him. Or he's bored.  _Or it's Monday_.

But though he works the doll off the door gently, retaining the blue-tack and checking to see if anything else had been left on the door or the steps, he's far from hopeful. Baker Street may be quite bespoke, but it's still slap-bang in the middle of Central London, and that amount of traffic, human and motorised, is going to coat anything pinned to his door with grease, fumes, and debris. Destroying any trace evidence the doll might have provided, as well as possibly providing false leads. And that's without factoring in the very anonymity of the item; there must be at least a hundred pound shops in the city selling toys like this. Even figuring out which one sold it would be a nightmare, and that's assuming Hough did something imbecilic like pay for it with a credit card or smile at a CCTV camera when the money changed hands. Nothing about his behaviour thus far- except for his unexpected, vicious dash for Molly in Dartmoor- has indicated that Ollie  _is_ that stupid, which means Sherlock will have to work a good bit harder to prove he did this-

 _-Wanker, yes,_ Sherlock thinks,  _moron, no-_

The upshot of all this being that being that Sherlock Holmes is about to have a very bad day.

 _At least he' s not alone in this though._ "I'm going to have a poke about," John is saying. "Which one of your homeless network's watching the house this shift?"

"Cora," Sherlock answers distractedly, carefully sealing the forensics bag. "She's 19, strong Jamaican accent, sensible shoes. She's normally over on Euston Street-"

He doesn't gesture-  _not much point in pointing your spy out, now is there?-_ but he doesn't need to. John has probably seen her, sitting and begging on the steps of the white house across from Speedy's. It gets enough foot-traffic from the underground station to make it worth her while. From the corner of his eye Sherlock checks for her but she's not there, none of his network is so she hasn't been relieved. That's strange, they're normally so good at being ignored that nobody says anything to them: Homelessness is like a bloody superpower, it can make you invisible.  _Which means_ …

"John," he says, "call Lestrade and ask whether there's been any disturbances reported on the street today. See if anyone has requested a rough sleeper be moved on, possibly for begging."

John nods distractedly and does so, scratching his head as he waits for the detective to pick up. Sherlock pockets the forensics bag and pops into Speedy's, almost amused when Mr. Chatterjee hastily disappears into the kitchen at the sight. His daughter Lita smiles though and says hello: She's very fond of Molly and she knows the situation, she's been asked to keep an eye on the front of the shop. But she hasn't noticed anything and it's been a quiet morning, she tells him. Maybe Tommy and Vincent, Mrs. Turner Next Door's eponymous Married Ones, saw something, she says, because Vincent's stuck at home with the flu and Tommy's been with him all day. Sherlock swallows down his frustration-  _he needs to keep these allies_ \- and assures her he will do. Heads back onto the street to find John arguing with Molly.

She's managed to get his mobile phone off him.

"Thanks, Greg," she's saying into it. "And I'll let Sally know. If you could send someone, that'd be great."

She hangs up and hands John's phone back to him, turns to face Sherlock. He tenses, preparing himself for an onslaught at either his high-handedness or his secretiveness, he's not sure which. But she doesn't fight, she walks over to him and carefully holds her hand out to him. He knows this movement- _It's alright,_ it means- and he takes her hand with equal delicacy and laces his fingers through hers. Feels the warmth and weight of them in his own.

"I'm better," she says quietly, and he can see that. Her eyes are still red, but she's not crying. "Now tell me what you've got, and what you need me to do."

Instantly Sherlock  _and_ John are shaking their heads. "We don't need you to do anything, Molly love," Watson tries. "You just need to-"

"I just need to stop being an observer in my own life, John," she says quietly. She looks at Sherlock, wearing that same determined mien she sported the night she spirited his "corpse," out of St. Bart's, and then looks back at John.

"I need to be in on this," she's saying. "I can't- He made me a bystander, John. He made me an, an  _afterthought_  in my own life. I watched what he did to me, because I couldn't live inside it. I couldn't change it. I-I wasn't even a person, I was something that belonged to him, to do with as he pleased. And I hid away, I hid from what was happening because I couldn't do anything else- I couldn't bear the thought of even trying-"

She bites the words off, squeezing her eyes shut, lip twisting. Maybe she has more tears left, after all.

Her expression is the fiercest Sherlock has ever seen it, and, to him at least, it is very, very beautiful.

"But Ollie Hough is not going to do that to me again," she's saying. "And I sure as Hell will not permit him to do it to Sherlock, or to you. So don't you dare ask me to sit by and watch, John Watson: I'll go quite mad, I assure you-"

"-And since there's only room for one madman in the TARDIS," Sherlock says with a small smile, tightening his grip on her hand, "Then I really think we should do as she says, John."

She nods and Watson's eyebrows climb, nearly to his hairline.

"After all," Sherlock continues, "you're the one who keeps saying I should ask her what  _she_  wants."

"So you're okay with this?" John asks, and Holmes suspects he's going to be hearing about  _that_ statement for the rest of his life: Mary's bound to find out about it.

 _Mainly because he will tell her_.

"Molly's okay with it," Sherlock says though. "That's the deciding vote here."

And with that he takes the doll inside and he and Molly examine it for every possible bit of trace evidence either of them can think of. Mary comes around and she and John bring Chinese and extra bodies for leg-work, and when they leave Molly curls in his arms on the couch and watches the fire dance in the grate. It feels... peaceful. It feels...  _right_. It's not difficult to touch her, Sherlock thinks, it feels… natural now. Wanted even. Just as it's not difficult to hold her as she cries a little more.

"You won't have to deal with The Bastard forever," he tells her. And he watches her, and thinks her beautiful, and wonders at Hough's blindness, that he never saw the wonder of  _this_  Molly, never saw what he sees.

"I won't let him hurt you," Molly tells him. "I promise, Sherlock."

And that is when she and the world's only consulting detective begin to properly plot and plan.


	21. But All Is New, Unhallowed Ground

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Hope you enjoy, hearing the home stretch now. 

**BUT ALL IS NEW, UNHALLOWED GROUND**

For most people, saying and doing are very different things.

Sherlock has always understood this- But then, a child who grew up around Mycroft Holmes Jnr. And Snr., watching both men lie to themselves, to their family and their employers, could not fail to notice such a thing.  _He'd needed no mother spirited away in the night to understand_ _ **that.**_ And the gap between word and deed had gotten even wider when he went to school, then university, the difference between what his fellow students said they were, and what they actually did, becoming more noticeable every day. It had irritated Sherlock then, and it irritated him now. To see as much as he did and have it not only go unacknowledged, but often openly dismissed, is infuriating.

Because Sherlock sees everything. He records everything. And he tells everything-  _For him, subtext must always be in the process of being made into text if it is to justify its existence_.

Since his earliest experiences with other people were all predicated upon his not being allowed to do so, however, he has always discounted his fellow humans, and the gaps between their words and their deeds. The conclusion of his research is unmistakeable: His fellow humans are not to be trusted.

They lie. They say they will do things and don't follow through. They are dishonest.

 _Not Molly though_ , he thinks now as pushes his way into the morgue. She's standing at the autopsy table and as he watches she hefts the last bit of her cadaver's intestines into the weighing scales and note its weight down.

 _No, when Molly says something,_ he muses,  _she does it._

_And he could ask for no greater evidence of that than the last few weeks._

Because Molly has been as good as her word, she has pulled herself together. She's stopped hiding in the flat and crying into her pillow, and she's started helping him solve the case. Closer inspection of the doll had proved fruitless: There had been nothing save trace evidence from the road on it. But then, as John had pointed out, that was hardly surprising. Ollie, unlike most of the criminals Sherlock dealt with, had known from the beginning that he was dealing with the Great Detective and had acted accordingly. In fact, he was an avid reader of John's blog.

As Watson was fond of pointing out, it was a case of  _wanker, yes, moron no._

As Sherlock was fond of pointing out, it was a case of  _I told you the internet's the work of Lucifer, John, and no amount of jiggling, bare breasts will convince me otherwise._

And because he wasn't a moron, Hough had made no threats to Molly that could be traced to him, had sent no texts, no letters. There had been no harassment, save the doll, and that could not yet be tied to him. All she had received was a polite answering-machine message from his secretary requesting she box up and deposit anything he had left at her place in Whitechapel and leave it into his surgery in St. John's Wood.

Hough had even offered to send a taxi.

Sherlock had gone with her instead when she dropped the box off, hoping to goad The Bastard into attacking him in front of witnesses or something equally asinine- It was still their best bet for getting a conviction.  _And besides, he'd bugged just about every object in the box which would take a listening device, and he wanted to make sure they were delivered._ But though Hough narrowed his eyes and glared when he saw Sherlock, and though the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees when Holmes gleefully (childishly, according to Molly) put his hand on her back to escort her from the office, leaning in close and whispering in her ear though he could have easily said the words aloud-

Hough did nothing.

In fact, he actually smiled at her and wished her well, since the clinic manager was watching, "Molly and her new boyfriend."

And when Sherlock got home that night, he discovered that Hough had binned everything Molly had returned to him. None of the bugs were working, and so no intelligence about his movements were forthcoming. Which was both frustrating and unhelpful- funny how those two things went hand in hand- as well as leaving Sherlock in the uncomfortable position of having to wait for him to commit another assault before he had anything new to go on.  _It was driving him insane._

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" he hears Molly's voice chime now.

He brings himself back to the present.

"Yes," he says. "Why?"

She shrugs, looking down at her bag and examining its contents with slightly more interest than they usually warranted. "You just looked… scowly. And things. Like you were thinking of something unpleasant-"

Sherlock shrugs too, tries to give her a reassuring smile. According to Mary, it still makes him look like a serial killer. "I  _was_  thinking of something unpleasant," he says. "I was thinking of Hough."

"Oh." Molly takes a deep breath and bites her lip. She's replaced the intestines and is peeling off her latex gloves. Must be nearly finished.  _Sherlock is looking forward to taking her home._ "So no news then?" she asks carefully.

He shakes his head. Now he  _knows_ he's scowling. "None. I'm afraid I'll just have to wait for him to send another message-"

She takes a deep breath, her mouth thinning. Instantly Sherlock goes on alert.

"Think I might be able to help you there, Sherlock," she says quietly. "Follow me."

And frowning, he follows her into the back, to the locker rooms. He's not sure what she's on about, but he's been knee-deep in a murder all day-  _boring, nobody checked the hobnobs for iocane, the police are idiots_ \- and he hasn't been here long, he feels he might be forgiven the lapse.

Molly stops at her locker and searches her pocket before locating the key. Opens the locker door with it and then steps back and gestures for Sherlock to take her place in front of the metal box. Sherlock does so, frowning, and looks inside. He sees her change of clothes, her new leather jacket, and a small tub of the hand cream he bought her when she moved in on the locker's top shelf, as well as a couple of photos of her, John and Mary pinned inside the door. There's a small box of latex gloves beside the hand cream, and a hairbrush; He's just about to ask Molly what he's looking for when she sighs and moves to box of gloves out of the way.

And there he sees it.

A tiny, plastic doll. Also two inches tall. Also generic.

Also, by the looks of things, a product of that mighty, industrial powerhouse that is urban Taiwan.

But this isn't a doll of a woman, no, this is a doll of a knight on a white, plastic charger. He wears no helmet, only carries a shield and lance in his hand.

His hair is dark and curly.

The knight's head has been severed from his shoulders and placed neatly beside his horse, small and insignificant. His eyes have been burnt out.

Someone has set a small sign against his horses saddle, the word  _traitor_ printed in pristine, red letters. Sherlock supposes he's been called worse in his time. The detective turns to look at Molly in astonishment. "Why on Earth didn't you tell me this sooner?" he demands.

His voice sounds so loudly that it's bouncing off the walls.

Molly looks uncomfortable. Defensive. "You were at a crime-scene-"

"So were  _you._ " He looks at her incredulously. "Did you even tell Lestrade what happened? Stamford? Security? Anyone?"

She shakes her head. "I told Sally," she says. "She said she'd pass it onto my case worker with the Community Safety Unit, but unless there's been an injury-"

Not for the first time, Sherlock has to fight the urge to shake her until her teeth rattle. "And is that all? Why the Hell didn't you call me, text me, something-?"

He's practically hopping with annoyance.

"I was upset, ok?" The words come out loud. Unhappy.  _Angry_.

And it's so rare for Molly to raise her voice that Sherlock actually blinks at her in surprise. When he looks at her though her face is puce with upset, embarrassment, and try as he might he can't understand it.

"You were upset, so you  _didn't_ call me?" he asks, genuinely bewildered.

_He thought… He thought they had a system._

_He thought… He thought they understood each other now._

Molly squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head as she goes. She doesn't speak, her hands clenching in on themselves, as if she's trying to calm herself. Her breath getting quicker, then quicker again. She does that during her panic attacks, Sherlock thinks. She does that during her flashbacks. But she hasn't had one of those in…

It comes to him. She's having one. Now. A fresh one.

 _And by the looks of things, it's not the first of the day_.

She starts trying to breathe more slowly now, trying to calm herself, but it's not happening. Her body's shaking, going into overload, and though he wants to yell at her until both their ears bleed he knows that he can't.

They have to deal with this immediately.

So Sherlock does what he always does, which is distract her. There's no laptop and no  _Doctor Who_  in the morgue, so he supposes he'll just have to improvise. He picks her up and plops her unceremoniously onto the nearest work surface, leans into her and lets her hear his breathing. Deep, loud, heavy, it goes in.  _Deep, loud, heavy, it comes out_. Just like she has every other time, Molly tries to follow him, leaning into him, letting him lead. She tries to even her breathing out, her forehead resting on his chest, but it isn't working. Her eyes are closed and she's inside the attack, she needs something to break the cycle of it. Something to bring her out.

"Molly," Sherlock says, and when she doesn't respond he takes her face in his hands, tilts it upwards.

Her eyes remain resolutely shut, a frown puckering her brow.

He can feel the sweat on her skin.

"Molly," he repeats, making his voice as calm, as authoritative as he can, "I need you to open your eyes. Look at me."

She wheezes out something which sounds like, "Can't-" but Sherlock shakes his head.

"Oh yes you bloody can, Hooper," he says tightly. Her breathing is still helter-skelter, and he forces himself to gentle his voice.

"Yes you can," he says more softly. He leans his forehead against hers. Counts his breaths, waits for her to follow suit. Slowly, slowly, she begins to do so. Her soft voice joining in his louder one-  _one, two, three, One, Two, Three-_ until it starts to calm.

They stay like that until she's recovered completely, until she's breathing properly again. Once that happens she flops down against him as she has so often before, her head resting heavily on his shoulder as his hand moves to tentatively stroke her back. For a moment all is peace, quiet, and then suddenly she stiffens.

She draws away from him, _looks_  away from him, and for the first time in months Sherlock would swear she's embarrassed in his presence.

"Sorry about that," she murmurs then. "And sorry… about earlier. I only found it an hour ago, and I thought… I texted John at the crime scene and he said you were alright, so I didn't… I didn't want to bother you with it…"

Sherlock shakes his head. "We're in this together, Molly," he says softly. "You said you wanted to get this bastard-"

She looks up at him. "But that's just it: That day, when we found the first one, I said I'd help. I said I was better now. How could I call you in the middle of a panic attack after promising you I was fine? How could I worry you like that..?"

And her voice trails off as she shakes her head angrily to herself.

She tries to curl in on herself, but Sherlock makes her look at him.

"You think this didn't worry me?" He can't believe what he's hearing. "I was worried already. I worry about you every day, Molly. And I'm going to worry about you even more, now what Hough's made clear St. Bart's security is for amateurs."

He takes a deep breath, manages to calm himself a tiny bit.

"But even if you have a little… hiccup in your recovery, you don't have to hide it from me," he tells her. "I'd rather know you're not okay sometimes than be kept out of the loop, alright?" She nods once, shyly, looking much chastened, and without thinking about it, without even considering the consequences or the meanings of it, Sherlock pulls her to him and kisses her forehead. Lays his own against hers again. Just like he would Mrs. Hudson. Or John. Or Mary. Or- Or-

_Or nobody._

Because this kiss didn't feel like something he would do with any of those people, fond as he is of them, and judging by the wide-eyed way Molly's looking at him, she knows that.

_Just as, judging by the wide-eyed way she's looking at him, she thinks it was inappropriate as Hell._

For a moment Molly looks at him, lashes fluttering, mouth opening and closing- And then slowly, oh so slowly, she tilts her head sideways and leans into him, her lips offered up to his. Sherlock stares as she gets closer, her breath against his own, the instinctive desire to dip his head and meet her halfway making mincemeat of his sense of emotional equilibrium.

He waits, one second, two seconds, not sure which one of them will bridge the divide, not sure when his actions (and hers) stopped being unseemly-

And then suddenly he sees awareness return to Molly's eyes and she looks away, her face flaming red with embarrassment.

"I'm- Oh God, I'm so sorry," she mutters. "I'm so sorry."

And she pulls herself off her perch and grabs her coat from her locker, takes off back into the morgue to close up for the night.

Sherlock watches her go but he's on autopilot, collecting the evidence from her locker, sealing it in a bag he keeps on him these days for just such an emergency. They don't speak in the taxi ride on the way home, and they don't speak as they listen to John's new voice-mail, the one Sherlock missed because he was calming Molly and kissing her in the morgue. It informs them that Henry Knight's gone missing, and the police suspect foul play: He's been getting these threatening doll things, you see, all those kids of his have been talking about them.

Molly and Sherlock go to bed and each lays awake all night, thinking.

But the guilt of it is, the majority of their thoughts are not with poor Henry Knight.


	22. All Sundered In The Night Of Fear

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.  We're nearly at the end, so on with the story. Hobbits away, hey!

**ALL SUNDERED IN THE NIGHT OF FEAR**

Henry Knight turns up two days later.

He's half-dead. Has been beaten black and blue. Is suffering from a punctured lung and several broken ribs.

He is also too traumatized, at first, to explain who did it to him.

In fact, for the first twenty four hours of his recovery, he is too traumatized to speak at all.

Because by the time the Dartmoor police find him, he's suffering from pneumonia. A by-product, apparently, of being abandoned, unconscious and near death, in Dewer's Hollow, and then lying there without food or water for more than a day. He is fortunate, Sherlock reflects as he and John sit beside him in his hospital bed, that the redoubtable Phyllis-  _she of moving her old banger to stop Ollie Hough fame_ \- had thought to take her dog for a walk near the Hollow. Had she not then he would have died out on the moor.

But Phyllis  _had_ taken her dog for a walk, and she  _had_ found Henry.

"Dreadful business," she tells John when he asks her about it. "Poor boy's been through enough, without this too."

Sherlock is lucky that John is present, because Watson explains to him that acting happy now he has something to nail Hough with is, "very, very, VERY not good, Sherlock."

The detective sits in a corner and pouts about not being able to enjoy the little things in life, but though he may not like it, he keeps his glee at Henry's survival to himself.

Unfortunately, however, once Henry  _is_ willing to talk about what happened to him, he can't tie his attack to Oliver Hough. Oh, he knows who did it: He was taken by one Jemmy Haines, a known local ne'er-do-well and alcoholic who felt supremely insulted that Henry had offered a safe haven to his former wife and their three small children after Haines got out of prison. As he had done with Molly, Knight had opened his home to a woman in need, and her husband's family had felt the need to punish him for it. Repeatedly. He had been supposed to die in the Hollow, and the Haines' collective familial honour would have been restored-  _In fact, the Haines men were drinking to it when the police called and nabbed them-_

Instead, however, Henry had been found and was now capable of pressing charges. Which was fine and good and probably a happy thing and all.

 _Sherlock, however, can't help but be disappointed by the fact that Knight will be charging the wrong man_.  _Sort of._

For while Jemmy Haines, when pressed by police, admits to being informed of his wife's whereabouts by an anonymous caller, as well as being given the key-code to the security door Henry had installed when Molly was staying with him, Sherlock has no way of proving that the caller was Hough. The circumstances are suspicious, certainly, but suspicion is not the same as proof. Hacking both Haines and Hough's phone records is useless: Hough has not called anyone in Dartmoor, and if he hacked someone else's number to deliver his tip-off, he chose a number which wouldn't appear out of place on Haines' phone records. Even the evidence of Haines' knowing Knight's key-code can't be tied to Hough: It turns out that one of the local boys had posted a video of himself sneaking into Henry's house to meet his girlfriend on you tube ( _teenagers_ , Sherlock muses,  _so young, so stupid_ ) and Haines could argue that he had gotten the information there. (This was also, incidentally, how Hough found Molly in Dartmoor the first time: he saw her in the background of a twitter-pic from the same, apparently attention-hungry, girl.)

All of which leaves Sherlock back where he started, except for one thing. Haines did not admit sending the threatening dolls to Henry. He is willing to admit to almost beating another man to death, but sending dismembered dolls to someone?

_Apparently that was, "right sick," and "creepy."_

_And "like something a woman would do."_

But if the dolls were Hough's idea then they were still the best way to nail him-

Which is fortunate because, in the two weeks after Henry Knight is found, they start turning up with frightening regularity.

First, there's the one Mary finds in her desk in the surgery. It's of the same make as the others, dressed in a bikini and very little else. Its features, as well as its breasts, have been slashed by a scalpel or a craft knife, a small, typed sign pinned  _into_ its chest, proclaiming the doll to be a  _traitor._

"Lovely," Mary says, when she finds it.

"I'm going to kill him," John says when he finds out.

He has to be rather forcefully dissuaded from going around to Hough's place and expressing his ire (i.e. beating The Bastard senseless) by Sally Donovan.

"He's unravelling," she tells him. "Let him screw up, and we've got him. Keep a good eye on the Mrs., but know that if he sets a foot wrong, we'll be there."

She frowns, pauses.

"And if you do decide to shoot him, don't miss and make sure you have a bloody good alibi."

Unsurprisingly perhaps, John does not find this advice terribly comforting.

Then there's the one Mrs. Hudson finds outside her door- not the front one, the door to her  _flat._ This is a doll of a white-haired granny- "I'm insulted for her already," Sally sniffs when she sees it- and it too has been slashed with a craft-knife, its lips carved open viciously, its bare feet hacked into. Sherlock is with his landlady when she finds it and as she picks it up, just for a moment she freezes. He can guess she's thinking of her dearly departed husband and the things he did to her, but when she looks at him her expression is calm and clear. Her tone concise.

"Bag it please, there's a good boy," she says to Sherlock.

For a moment her placid expression wavers.

"You won't have to touch it," Holmes tells her softly as he takes it into his flat to investigate.

 _He doesn't let Molly see this one, and he suspects that that is wise_.

But he can't keep the others- the other dolls- away from Molly. He hates to admit it but he's failing to protect her, and it's driving him mad.

And over the next two weeks however, three dolls appear in the flat, each more horrific- more disturbing for Molly- than the last.

And with each appearance, Sherlock's rage and helplessness goes up another notch.

The first Molly finds pinned to the flat's front door- which means Hough got  _inside_ the building, and my but that makes Sherlock's heart lighter. And yet, there's no evidence of a break-in, which means Hough must have a copy of Mrs. Hudson's keys, because he doesn't look like the type to scale a central London property unnoticed, and there's no evidence he hired someone else to do so.

Like the first doll delivered, this one wears a lab coat and a sign saying  _whore._ Both hands however have been hacked off this doll, the little plastic body parts left on the upper steps of the house like taunts, the cut-off remains of the doll's polyester ponytail lying fanned out on the uppermost step. Molly tells him when she finds this that someone has stolen her hairbrush from her handbag in work, and though Sherlock tries to downplay it, he can't help but suspect that such escalation does not bode well.

He fills in form after form down in Scotland Yard in the wake of the incident, and this time he doesn't leave until Lestrade threatens to have him physically removed. The he goes and bothers Mycroft. Who refuses to do anything unless  _he_ is in danger.

But that's not the end of it. A second doll turns up in the kitchen, sitting on the table beside his experiments. It's the same as its predecessors, save for the fact that its legs have been sliced precisely off, the small sign proclaiming it a whore pushed  _through_ the doll's chest with a nail and into the wood beyond. Nails are used to pin its severed limbs to the table in the same way. The table is solid oak, and the force needed to do such a thing is excessive, Sherlock notes uneasily. It would require…  _It would require both strength, rage and determination_.

It is this one which convinces Lestrade to finally have his boys start tailing Hough. Mycroft however, refuses to become any more involved.

Molly finds this one when she comes home from her shift in St Bart's, but though she calls him, panicked and in tears, she still calls him. She even manages to canvas the neighbours and Mr. Chatterjee as well as ascertaining that, once again, the rough sleeper assigned to watch Baker Street that day had been moved on by an anonymous request from "a resident."  _One call to Lestrade and Sherlock ensures that this, at least, will not happen again_. The younger Holmes is proud of how well she deals with it, and he tells her. Ever since the night he tried to, well, tried to be inappropriate with her, he's made a point of keeping his distance unless she directly needs his help. But he can't bear not letting her know how impressed he is, anymore than he can help the pit off helplessness howling in his chest at the thought that he can't stop this-  _All his brains, all his_ _ **talents**_ _, and he can't stop this-_

And then, one night, as he's lying on his bed, trying to come up with a way to pin this on Hough and get him away from Molly- or else get away with his murder- he suddenly hears the most horrifying, blood-curdling scream coming from the room next to his.

There's a crash of footsteps, a bang rather than a knock on his door, and Molly comes tearing into the room, her eyes streaming, her breath coming in pants. She launches herself at him, holding onto him so tight she almost breaks his ribs, her words fast, panicked, tumbling over one another.

Sherlock hears the words "doll," "bedroom," and "pillow," before she starts crying again and this time he can't help himself: He gives into the rage. Leaves her and barrels into her room though he knows he should stay with her.

And he wishes he had stayed with her, when he sees what's in the room.

For a moment, everything looks fine. The duvet's been folded back, ready for sleep, and Molly's favourite Jane Austen,  _Pride and Prejudice_ , is sitting on her bedside locker. A small candle, perfumed with lavender and chamomile, sits on her windowsill, scenting the room with a smell she believes will help her sleep. (It's a placebo, Sherlock knows, though this is beside the point).

_So far, so Molly._

A second look, however, reveals what's amiss: there is a doll sitting upright in the middle of Molly's pillow. A doll that Hough-  _Christ, that Hough must have gotten_ _ **into**_ _221B to plant_. This one is dressed like the others but its lab coat is precise and white, its features and limbs perfect. It's wearing a little black dress under its lab-coat, strapless, like the one Molly wore to that ill-fated Christmas party in Baker Street so many years ago-  _It even has the massive hoop diamante earrings to match, and the shade of lipstick it's wearing is right._ When Sherlock picks the doll up, he feel wetness at its middle, where its thighs would be if it were real. Frowning, he moves the doll into the light in the other room and as he does he realises that little black dress is instead stained with something gelatinous and sticky which might be blood. As he examines it he lifts the dress, and even he has to admit that what he sees is disturbing-

Because the doll has been mutilated across its lower body.  _Cut. Slashed. Gouged at._

The word  _joke_ has been carved into its belly whilst nails and pins have been pushed repeatedly into its torso. Its legs. The space where its genitals would be.

 _It makes absolutely no sense- he knows that is holding but an inanimate object- but for one panicked moment the great Sherlock Holmes thinks he might... He thinks he might throw up_.

"It was in my bed, Sherlock," he hears Molly murmuring. "Jesus, it was in my  _bed…_ " She's rocking on her heels as she says it, murmuring the words over and over again.

Sherlock knows he has to stay calm. She needs him to be his old self right now, she's far too upset for him to try anything different. So- "Get me my some latex gloves and an evidence bag," he says curtly. He hears her indrawn breath and forces himself to continue. "Quickly, now, Molly: I want this bagged and dealt with before you go back to bed."

"I'm not getting in that bed!" she snarls, and at the anger Sherlock almost smiles.  _It will do her more good than tears, he knows_.

"I know you're not getting back into that bed," he tells her, making sure to keep his tone just the right side of patronizing.  _His heart is beating so bloody hard_. "You'll sleep in mine tonight. Something which would happen much more promptly if you do as you're told. So- Bag. Now. Please, Molly." He gestures imperiously. "Neither of us is getting any younger: Chop, chop."

She opens her mouth and closes it a few times, but she goes and gets him the evidence bag. Brings a pair of latex gloves too.

She all but throws them at him and he bags it has he has bagged all the others, examining it for trace evidence, aware that his reaction is somehow… distant from what has transpired. Distant in the way it was when Moriarty strapped John into an explosive vest that night in the swimming pool. Distant in the way it was when Agent Nielson threatened Mrs. Hudson and he was forced to restore balance to the universe. The doll yields as little evidence as the others, no traces, no fibres, no tie to Hough or anyone else. The blood on it isn't human, but the test to find out what it is can wait for tomorrow: He needs to get Molly to bed now. For some reason he can't fathom, Sherlock thinks that putting her to bed will make the distance go away-  _Will make him feel like he's back inside his mind again_ -

So he pads out of her room to find her sitting on the sofa in front of the fire. A glass- a rather large glass- of scotch in her hand. She's throwing it back, not sipping it, and even Sherlock knows that's not good. Just as he knows that the tight, upset twist of her shoulders bodes no well at all. She looks up at his entry and then immediately looks away. Flinches. It hits Sherlock more harshly than a blow might do: She's not crying anymore, but this doesn't look any better. It doesn't feel better either, and there's only one thing he can think to help make it right.  _It's what he did with John when he returned from the dead_. So-

"On your feet, Hooper," he says tightly, and Molly flinches again. Looks away from him.

"Sod off," she says but Sherlock doesn't listen, he simply kneels down in front of her, his gaze meeting hers.

His hands go, without his bidding them, to her knees.

"Fine," he says. "We'll do it this way." He steels himself, stares straight at her.

He can feel her worry- anger- upset- coming off her in waves.

"Make a fist, Molly," he says quietly. "Make a fist, and think about everything Hough has done to you. Think about everything I haven't been able to keep you safe from, and then give me a good, hard smack in the jaw, alright?"

She blinks, and for a moment he thinks she's not going to do it. He's not even sure why  _he_ wants her to do it, save that he thinks it will make her feel better and it will help with the roiling, angry pit of impotent rage sloshing around in his belly. Her hesitation stretches out, her eyes still on him. She's as still as a statue, and Sherlock thinks again that she's not going to do as he said. But then- Her hand flashes back, her fist swinging forwards. He feels the breeze of its momentum, steels himself to accept the hurt. It will help her feel better, he know it. In the absence of their usual interactions giving comfort, perhaps the opportunity for righteous violence will. Her fist comes towards him, faster, gaining momentum.

But at the last minute it opens out, fingers lengthening- trajectory slowing-

Molly's bare palm lands as gently as a kind word on his face, her arm shaking with the force of having slowed it. Her body shaking with the force of her emotions.

She stares at him for a moment, her breathing heavy, her entire attention focused on him, and then she reaches for the nape of his neck and tugs him towards her as hard as she can.

Her lips press against his- unexpected, incomprehensible- and for the first time in his entire life, Sherlock feels the thrill, the diamond-jagged delight, of a freely given kiss. He stumbles forward a little, his knees knocking clumsily off hers, but she does not pull away. Moments pass, the pleasure of what she's doing, the will to do something-  _something-_ in return building within him.  _He has to- He wants to- Why doesn't he know more about how to **do**_   _this?-_ And then-

"If you ever suggest I hurt you again, Sherlock," she says shakily, "I'll kill you." She kisses him again, more lightly. More gently. It feels...  _It feels surprisingly wonderful_. "Now take me to bed."

And with that she takes his hand in hers and they both meander slowly, tentatively, towards his bedroom. He doesn't think either of them know what they're doing but for once he doesn't mind.

* * *

And somewhere across town, Oliver Hough stares at a computer screen and snarls in thwarted rage.


	23. Oh Sweet And Bitter In A Breath

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.  The next one is penultimate, so this is a bit of a breather... Enjoy...

**OH SWEET AND BITTER IN A BREATH**

There's a reason that people get drunk or stoned before they attempt to have sex, Sherlock thinks as Molly closes the door behind them.

_There's a reason people get out of their skull, and that reason is nerves._

Because if people had time to stop and think about what they are about to do before they did it, then they'd realise that sex is ridiculous. And idiotic. And unnecessary. And, and embarrassingly… wet and, and sticky and… things. After all, any activity in which body parts get routinely inserted into, and removed from, one another is bound to create a bit of a mess-

He hears the click of the door closing. Sees Molly walk towards him.

She's smiling.

It's tired and it's wan and it's little-  _rather like her, actually_ \- But there's this… light in her now. A glow that's soft and warm and, and… It's not something he thinks has ever been meant for him before. People don't show their soft underside to Sherlock, they don't willingly show him their weaknesses. He's a predator, pure and simple, and most of his fellow humans- idiotic, invertebrate mouth breathers that they are- understand that as soon as they look at him.

_And if they don't,well he gives them a nice, long, viciously honest deduction just to prove it to them._

He proves to them that he is not to be trifled with or harmed, because the consequences will be dire.

So they give him a wide berth, treat him with respect, with fear, with kid gloves almost-

The bed dips as Molly sits down beside him, her lips bitten but smiling.

Her hand goes hesitantly to land on top of his, and though her touch is gentle, it doesn't feel to Sherlock like she wants to treat him with kid gloves.

"We don't have to do anything," she says, and that low, electric quality is in her voice again. It has its usual effect on the hair at the nape of his neck. She smiles more widely, blushes as she says it. The next words are addressed to his hands. "We can just sleep: After all, it's not like- I mean, I don't expect you to-"

He reaches down and kisses her lowered mouth before he can persuade himself not to, silencing the words. Eating them up. He doesn't- they're hers and he wants something of hers, but he doesn't want her to say them.

His lips land on the edge of her mouth, at the corner of her smile, and they both look at one another and grin.

Slowly, awkwardly, Molly stands and moves until she's standing in front of Sherlock, and then she leans over him, her hands on his shoulders for balance, her knees going on either side of hips. She's smiling as she does it, but the smile looks like a question, and Sherlock could be wrong but he doesn't think either of them are doing a particularly good job of remembering to breathe.

As she shifts her weight onto his lap she very nearly falls off, and instinctively he wraps one arm around her hips, pulling both of them farther onto the bed. She lets out this nervous, breathless little laugh and though he knows it's imbecilic, Sherlock's own lower, rougher chuckle joins it. In fact, this time he outright grins at her, and if it weren't for the fact that they're alone together in the room then he knows he'd be incredibly embarrassed at doing that.  _People might start thinking he's normal, and things_.

But they  _are_ alone, and he  _isn't_  embarrassed.

He can't be when Molly smiles at him in pure, undiluted delight at what he just did.

So he kisses her again, his lips landing on hers and moulding to them, her hands sliding up his chest to press against his throat, his heart, to tug at his hair's nape. The tiny shiver of near-pain twists at his insides, tightening his pulse, his belly, and he strengthens his grip on her, pulls her closer to him. Holding her more tightly in response, afraid almost, on some level, that she'll move away.

He can feel her body against his own now, her form warm and supple. She breathes in and sighs, kissing him back, and it presses her breasts against his chest, her free hand sliding down to caress his spine. It's-  _there are words for this, Sherlock knows, but they're failing him._ He's- They're- She's warm and soft and here in his hands, his arms are full of her, and it's been a long time since it happened but he thinks he might have found something he simply can't stop. His fingers come up under her shirt and he feels her breast, round and small and perfect, her nipple a hardened point against his palm. He presses into it with the heel of his hand and she gasps, tightens her grip on his hair again. Tugs. Swears softly at the feeling of what he's just done to her, her eyes squeezing tightly shut.

"You like that," he mumbles against his lips, and he doesn't mean to sound surprised but it comes out that way anyway.

_He's supposed to know what he's doing._

She nods, kissing him again, the space between her thighs pressing down on him. He feels heat, wetness- her little nightshirt's not very thick, he thinks disjointedly- and then the fingers of one hand are tightening in his hair, her other hand digging sharply into the cheeks of his arse. It's pure instinct, his hips jump, press into her. He's hot and hard at the point of contact, his breath hissing, getting so loud that it's almost mortifying in the room.

"You like that," she murmurs into his ear, and he can feel her smile as she says it.

Sherlock tightens his grip on her waist and shifts them, pulling backwards until he's lying down and she's on top of him, then rolling her until she's underneath him. "I do," he rumbles. "I like it, I like it…" He's fairly certain he should be able to come up with more than that but it seems monosyllabic is the best his brain can do right now.  _It's all he can do to stop rolling his hips into hers like some sort of primitive, doltish ape._ He shifts, his knee pressing between Molly's thighs, his mouth moving to his her chin, her jaw, the pale, warm stretch of her throat-

And then suddenly he stops. Frowns. Looks down at her. The soft, pliant warmth in her has gone. The glow too. She's looking down and she- She's biting her lip but it's different this time. She's not… She doesn't like this.

She doesn't  _want_  this.

He shakes his head slightly as if to clear it, trying to understand, but he knows that he does not.

Mentally, he catalogues her state, trying to get to the bottom of it. She's not hurt- She's not crying. A moment ago she was happy. They didn't- He hasn't harmed her or done anything she didn't initiate, has he?  _And yet, and yet…_

"I- I can't breathe, Sherlock," she says quietly, and he suddenly realises they he's holding her down. His weight has her rather effectively pinned, and he is a great deal larger than she.

He doesn't imagine, given her experience of the last few months, that she would enjoy being held down by anyone, so he shifts away from her. Releases her.

But though she apparently doesn't want him on top of her, when he tries to move completely off she tightens her grip on him. Snuggles into his side, her arms locked around his torso.

 _The silence_ , Sherlock reflects after a moment,  _is awfully loud._

"Sorry," she murmurs then, and it sounds as fragile as a piece of sugar glass.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says stiffly. For a moment he is lost as to what else to do, but then he remembers one of their older interactions, one of the ones they've already worked out the meaning for. So he turns onto his side and pulls her back against his chest. Wraps his arms around her on the bed, tucking her head under his chin.  _I am here,_ this means.  _You're safe. It's alright_   _now._

Molly gives out a little sigh and he smiles, realising that she understood his message.

"Are you disappointed?" she asks, and again her voice sounds tiny.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, I'm not." He's hard, certainly, and he's breathless, and they were well on their way to something very pleasant, but it's not going to kill him that they didn't get there.

Besides, now that there's enough blood to run his brain he can't help but think that maybe it's something they shouldn't rush into.

_One doesn't usually rush into the things in life which one knows one wants to last._

So he presses a little kiss to the crown of her head. "I'm glad," Molly murmurs in answer, the words spoken to one of his ribs. He can feel her breath, very softly tickling his side.  _It's… It's really rather peaceful_. "But can we… Can we try again tomorrow? Or, or some other time..? When I'm more… When we're not…" She growls in frustration at herself. "When I'm not as worked up about everything..?" she says eventually, and she sounds a little lost.

Sherlock frowns down at her. Does she honestly think he's not going to want to try this again? She must know…  _Well, she must know that he doesn't do this sort of thing with just anyone._  In fact, she's the first person he's ever wanted to do it with- sober, at least, or not acting out of curiosity about the many uses one can make of a riding crop.

So he tilts her chin up until she's looking at him and then nods. Stares down into those brown eyes. They're soft again, though the warmth has left them.

"Yes, Molly," he says. "I would like to try again. But I would also like to sleep." He takes a deep breath, forces himself to say the next words. He doesn't want her to leave but he's not sure she'll want to stay. "Would you- Would you still like to sleep here?"

Now the warmth comes back to her eyes and she smiles. "Yes, Sherlock. I'd like that."

He nods decisively. "Quite," he says. "Well then, let's get on with it Hooper." She presses a kiss to his chest, just above his heart, and he presses a kiss to her crown, just where her hair is softest. They settle themselves in the bed and Sherlock pulls the cover over them both.

Sleep comes and with it dreams, those warm, intoxicating ones he thought he'd left behind after she went to stay with Henry.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning they make breakfast together, and they do the washing up together, and he sits her on the worktop beside the sink and kisses her until neither of them can breathe.

Molly goes out to work, and Sherlock goes out on a case, and when he comes back to Baker Street he finds the spot beside the sink where they sat has been vandalised and slashed at, one of his tubs of acid thrown at it, the dismembered pieces of another doll in a white lab coat and another plastic knight lying scattered across its surface.

Sherlock stares at the damage, thinking, calculating for a moment, and then takes out his phone. Pulls up Mycroft's number.

"How long have you known how he's been doing this?" he spits before the elder Holmes can even say hello.


	24. I Seem To Fail From Out My Blood

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. 

**I SEEM TO FAIL FROM OUT MY BLOOD**

Sherlock has always known that Mycroft keeps cameras in Baker Street.

After all, his elder brother is the spy-master general of old London Town, and there's only so many ways he knows to show affection towards others.

_Spying simply happens to come quite high on that list._

Being willing to kill, maim and destroy anyone who threatens his family likewise ranks rather strongly. And if one is to keep ahead of all the myriad of problems Sherlock has gotten himself into over the years, then some sort of surveillance is necessary, Sherlock has always understood that. In fact, if he's being honest, he almost… missed the feeling of being watched when he was "dead." It's something that has been done to him for as long as he can remember, so of course he finds it vaguely comforting.

_And in those circumstances, who wouldn't?_

And it is for this reason that he has no real problem with knowing that he is watched every moment, or as close to that as his brother can manage.  _It's_   _not like he's not able to duck it when the need arises._  So it never particularly bothered him that there's a camera outside Mrs. Hudson's door, and one inside the hall of 221. It has never particularly bothered him that the living room in 221B is probably being watched daily, though he's fairly sure that the bathrooms and bedrooms are clear (a fact for which John is, no doubt, very grateful). Because Mycroft spies on people, it's what he does, and since he has always been able to evade detection when he wanted to, Sherlock has never taken it personally.

He thinks of that last doll he found in the flat, thinks of the look on Molly's face when she discovered it, and he silently swears that if a single hair on Molly's head is harmed because of his brother's little hobby then he's going to personally strangle him and dump his body in the Thames.

_After all, if anyone were able to get away with murdering Mycroft, it would be_ _**him.** _

He bounds up the steps of the Diogenes Club at the thought, pushing the door open and grabbing one of the summoning cards from their place beside the concierge. Scribbling out his brother's name with a flourish and indicating- apparently through thunderously angry facial expression alone- that it would be extremely unwise for the elderly, be-suited attendant to keep him waiting. The white-haired man inclines his head slightly, well used to angry people demanding to see the Diogenes Club's members at any time of day or night, before toddling off obligingly to fetch the elder Holmes. He makes a show of taking his time doing it, something which at any other moment would have amused Sherlock greatly but which now merely irritates him more. It's been an barely half an hour since he came home to find the flat vandalised and put two and two together regarding how Hough was getting in intelligence about Baker Street, and if Mycroft thought hanging up on him and then coming in here to hide would keep him safe from his baby brother's wrath then he is sadly bloody mistaken-

There's a rustle of papers being folded then, a martyred sigh, and when he looks up Sherlock sees his brother at the door. He's holding himself in exactly same stance he used to when mother had caught him in some wrongdoing, shoulders hunched, his waistcoat open and his tie less than perfectly knotted. It's the closest thing that the older man ever comes to dishabille, and judging by the defiantly guilt-free look on his face he knows it.

"Well?" he snaps, clearly trying to bluff his way out of this. "Have you come all this way to hurl more accusations at me, brother dearest?"

Sherlock knows that tone, knows he's trying to push his buttons and get him to lose his temper. He does that, and the Diogenes' security will throw him out, they've done it before.

But since Molly needs him to get to the bottom of this, and since not giving Mycroft what he wants is always a great deal more fun then giving it, Sherlock smiles this tight, sharp smile he uses when he's feeling particularly vindictive.

This one he  _knows_ makes him look like a serial killer.

Mycroft stiffens at the sight- he recognises it, apparently- and Sherlock genially indicates that they should both sit down. The attendant shuffles out, leaving them to it. This Mycroft does as he's asked, though not with a great deal of enthusiasm. He tries to hide self-importantly behind his newspaper but Sherlock takes it off him, folds it and throws it in the bin.

The elder Holmes actually pouts when it's done and a long, drawn out beat ensues.

"How long have you known that Hough was using your cameras to look inside Baker Street?" Sherlock asks then, unwilling to start this little Q & A gently.

_If Mycroft wanted him to be gentle then he shouldn't have kept him in the dark about how Ollie bloody Hough was sneaking into his home._

Mycroft opens his mouth- probably to deny it- but at the last second seems to think better of it. Apparently he's decided that neither denial nor moral outrage will help his case at the moment, and Sherlock must admit, he thinks that wise.

"I didn't know Hough was using our cameras," he answers instead, his words curt. Formal. He sounds like he'd rather be chewing glass.  _It's quite a performance,_ Sherlock thinks. "I had been assured by our lot that the server was secure-"

Sherlock snorts. "Even your boys know that there's no such thing," he says dismissively. "Not at least in a civilian surveillance operation. Anything which would be truly difficult to hack into would stick out like a sore bloody thumb in a city like London. You might as well pin a giant sign to Baker Street saying,  _interesting case for study here, please break in at will."_

He leans over the desk, narrows his eyes at his brother.

Mycroft meets his gaze without fear. Hesitation perhaps, but not fear, and Sherlock smells a rat.

"Which is why you've never thought that your connection to Baker Street was impenetrable," he says quietly. His tone is far too reasonable to be safe. "You've always known it's vulnerable to outside influence," he says. "You've always known the danger was there. And yet, when I asked, you told me that nothing of Hough had turned up on the surveillance tapes. That you had no idea how he was getting in or out. It took seeing him vandalize the one spot in the flat that he must have been watching in order to take a turn against it before I realised that you were lying to me- Letting me chase ghosts-"

The truth of his words apparently irritate Mycroft, but he makes no attempt to deny them. "I had assumed you realised what Hough was doing-" he tries instead.

Sherlock snorts. "Do I look like John to you?"

Mycroft makes a placating gesture with his hands, indicating that no, he doesn't believe his baby brother looks like the army doctor.  _It's probably just as well_.

"Then don't lie to me. You knew that Hough was using your cameras to watch the inside of the flat," Sherlock continues tightly. "You knew, and you didn't tell me. It's the only thing that makes any sense: Hough must have found a way to hack into your signal. Probably used the Wifi in Speed'ys, wouldn't have been difficult since your encryption's so piss poor-"

He shakes his head.  _He's… He's just so_ _ **disappointed**_ _in his sibling_.

Another, longer beat.

"The one thing I can't work out is why?" Sherlock says eventually, when it becomes obvious that Mycroft is going to stick with his sudden vow of silence. "Why didn't you tell me? Why let me keep running around in circles? If you'd had footage of him breaking in, we could have given it to the police and kept him away from Molly-"

It is at this though that Mycroft finally reacts.

"And how would it look?" he demands. "How would I explain that to Lestrade and the rest? That I had obtained perfectly illegal footage of someone getting into my brother's house? That I had been using tax-payer's money to fund something on the side? My enemies would have a field day, they've been circling like jackals ever since that debacle with Adler, not to mention the way your little morgue mouse fooled me over your death-"

Sherlock frowns. "What has that to do with any of this?"

"What indeed?" Mycroft throws Sherlock his most patronising look. "And that there, dear brother, is your entire problem in a nutshell, isn't it? You don't even see anything beyond your own horizon. You don't see the fallout your darling little crushes are still wreaking on me and mine, and to add insult to the proverbial injury, you're now getting shacked up with the last woman who made a fool out of me." He shakes his head, his expression looking like nothing so much as a snarl. When his eyes come to rest on Sherlock, there is rage in their depths.

"Even with your consent to use the footage, any half-decent solicitor would have made mincemeat of that in court," he mutters. "I shudder to think what would have happened if the press were to get wind of it, and get wind of it they no doubt would- Which would lead to a whole world of questions in Parliament and senior civil servants breathing down my neck, of people asking me to justify myself when I answer to nobody save the privileged few. And without it being able to do you any good, why on Earth would I give away the fact that the cameras were there? What precisely would be in that for me, hmm?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes.  _He really shouldn't have to explain_ _ **this**  to a member of his family._

"I should think that would be obvious," he says quietly. "Molly would be safe. Molly would be free of Hough. We might have caught him in the act if you had warned us-"

Mycroft rolls his eyes heavenward, everything about his body-language dismissive. "Please, Sherlock," he snorts, "Just because you've rediscovered your fondness for fucking pretty little things with low standards and no spinal column, don't think that I'll be equally enamoured of the notion-"

Sherlock honestly doesn't remember deciding to punch him, the blow comes out of nowhere. It lands with bone-shattering force, directly on the bridge of Mycroft's nose, the impact smacking into Sherlock's hand down to the bone.

Mycroft blinks at him, momentarily bewildered-  _momentarily looking like the boy Sherlock wanted to set his very own Dalek on_ \- and then like a shutter falling over his face the old Mycroft, the adult Mycroft is back. He openly sneers at his brother.

"And that little stunt," he sniffs, "has just made my point for me. Why on Earth should I encourage this imbecilic tenderness for your pathetic little speck of womanhood, when this is how it makes you behave?"

And he stands, leans over the table and glares at Sherlock. Punctuates each coming word with a jab of his finger, looking like nothing so much as their father as he does it.

It belatedly occurs to Sherlock that there's more going on here than just worry about his reputation.

"What do you think it will do to your thinking faculties, your gifts?" Mycroft demands. "What do you think it will do to your sobriety, what with your massively large intellect and your concomitantly infinitesimal capacity for self control?" He shakes his head, his disgust obvious.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but for once nothing will come out.

"We both know where sentiment leads," Mycroft bites out. "We both know where it lead Father, and we both know where it lead me. It will lead you to your ruin.  _She_ will lead you to your ruin. That you have been spared it this long is a miracle, at least with The Woman you knew what you were getting yourself into but with this one-"

"Molly- Molly isn't like Adler," Sherlock says quietly, finally finding his voice. "Molly is-She's-"

"What?" Mycroft smirks. " _What?_ Like Mother? Gentle and sweet when you first meet her? Completely unstable when things get too rough?" His tone turns positively gloating. "But then I've seen those panic attacks she has, how you have to deal with them. Quite adorable really- what is it John has started calling you, a  _real, live boy..?_ "

Sherlock shows his teeth at that, something low and angry and dark which he doesn't really understand hissing through him.  _He imagines it's how the first caveman felt when he found something unwelcome hiding in his cave_. Again he throws a punch, but this time Mycroft sees it coming, dodges it with an infuriating smile.

Fortunately for everyone however, he doesn't see the second one Sherlock throws.

"That's none of your business," Sherlock hisses as he pulls back from the blow. " _She_  is none of your business. You stay the bloody Hell away from her, or you'll deal with me." And he leans in, puts his face in Mycroft's. He can feel that rage, that anger that he hasn't let loose since Moran, roiling in his gut. "You see, unlike Hough, you won't go running to the police to press charges if I decide to be difficult," he mutters. "You won't have anyone but your boys to turn to, and you're not ready for  _that._ So start this with me and we both know it will escalate until neither of us can walk away..."

He leans in, practically whispers the words in Mycroft's ear. The older man's eyes widen, probably at the rage he hears in his tone.

"Don't push me, brother dearest," Sherlock mutters, "and I won't push you. Try me though and..." He shrugs. Again his smile is hard. Dark. Feral. "I may be standing on a precipice," he says, "but this time when I fall, rest assured that I won't be alone in my flight."

And with that, Sherlock stands up. Mycroft narrows his eyes at him. He looks like there's something quite distasteful in his mouth.

_The younger Holmes thinks angrily that he knows precisely how that feels._

"So you would turn on your own family for her?" Mycroft asks scathingly. "You would turn your back on flesh and blood?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow even further, his anger coming to a razor sharp point. Of the many things he expected to discuss today, loyalty was not on the list-  _And the hypocrisy of Mycroft bringing it up isn't lost on him._

"First of all, brother," he says tightly, "I would never be so foolish as to turn my back on you. That's the sort of stupidity that leads to accidents, after all."

He has the pleasure of seeing Mycroft start at his pointedness.

_Sherlock feels a savage, angry snarl of pleasure at the thought._

"As for Molly: She saved me, when nobody else would," he says. "She got me away from Moriarty, and it wasn't her who told him everything there bloody was to know about me, was it? It wasn't her who dangled me like a worm on a fishing line, who set me up to do his dirty work for him."

He spits the words at Mycroft and his brother pales even more at the sight.

_Good. His guess about Mycroft's end game with his Fall, about Mycroft's desire to hunt down Moriarty's network and desire to manoeuvre his brother into doing it had been right._

"So here is what you're going to do," Sherlock says quietly. "You're going to give me every moment of footage you have from 221B, and you're going to give me any information you have to go with it. You're going to hand it over, and then you're going to turn off your surveillance, and by the time you get home tonight, every camera in Baker Street will have been dismantled, is that absolutely clear?"

Mycroft's jaw works, his rage obvious, but he gives a microscopic nod.

_If there's to be a retaliation for this, it won't happen today._

"Excellent," Sherlock says with a sort of vicious cheerfulness. "I'm glad we can see eye to eye. And when all that's done- Well then you're going to make your peace with the notion of Molly Hooper in my life, the way you once made your peace with the notion of John Watson."

Sherlock goes to the door, pulls it open. He and Mycroft are done here.

"I'd ask whether you understand, but that is irrelevant: Molly is staying, regardless."

And with that he opens the door to the Diogenes Club and strides out of it. Pulls up his collar and disappears into the night.

* * *

When he gets home, Mycroft's boxes are already waiting for him. Molly asks him what's wrong and when he's not ready to tell her she wraps her arms around him; They sit, in communion with the silence and a truly bloody good takeaway from the local Chinese, and when Sherlock falls asleep that night it's Molly who soothes him. Molly who strokes his hair and binds him in her arms. He wakes the next morning feeling surprisingly energetic, ready to start combing through Mycroft's files for something- anything- that can help him save her, though he can't imagine why he's feeling so much better-

It turns out, however, that as soon as he identifies the person breaking into 221B, he realises he won't need his brother's help at all. He won't even have to speak to Lestrade. Because clever as Ollie Hough's been, he's made a mistake and now Sherlock knows it-

So he calls John Watson and together he and his best friend go to see one of the myriad of criminals in London who actually owe him a favour, a favour Sherlock has elected to call in.


	25. They Called Me Fool, They Called Me Child

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Some of you may recognise one of the characters here from my sister fic, "The Boy On The Step,"- extra brownie points to those who do. Enjoy and hobbits away, hey!

**THEY CALLED ME FOOL, THEY CALLED ME CHILD**

"Muuuuummmm," the teenage girl who opens the door yells over her shoulder. "Mum, the ponce in the big swishy coat is back. Do you want me to tell him to bugger off?"

And she pops her gum, staring up at John and Sherlock with wide, unimpressed, entirely guileless eyes. She has cornrows, slanted brown eyes like a cat's; She's wearing an England jersey, number 11 of course. That this is unusual for a resident of a flat in Canary Wharf doesn't seem to worry her at all- In fact, she looks rather proud of it.

Watson snickers at the girl's words, looking askance at his best friend.

Instead of looking put out however, Sherlock merely smiles. Leans into her.

_He's going to enjoy this, he remembers the little girl from his previous visit two years before and she was a pain in the arse then, too._

"Now, now, Martinique," he says quietly, keeping his voice firm yet friendly. "Where are your manners? I'm probably the reason you're here: If I hadn't persuaded your mother to stay in the country, you would have grown up in glorious, cosmopolitan, downtown Nizhniy Novgorod, learning God knows what from God knows who and with God only knows what prospects. But instead, you got to grow up here in  _London_. Learning everything there is to know about alco-pops, teenage pregnancy scares and getting yourself an ASBO. So be a good girl and open the door before I do something… unpleasant, do we understand one another?"

Martinique cocks an eyebrow at him, one hip popped out. Unrepentant.

 _She looks_ , Sherlock thinks,  _like a miniature of her mother when she does that._

"Whatevs," she mutters, moving out of the way. "Mum can kick your arse anyway, posh boy."

And with that she lets Sherlock and John into the flat. Retires to her room, with a snicker and a pointed, "You can do better, blondie," to John, which makes the good doctor chortle and Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Smart girl," John says as she disappears and Sherlock looks at him with as much disdain as he can muster.

"You're not going to do better than me, John," he says pointedly. "I'm a ten, ask anyone, even Mary. Now let's get on with this, hmm? Before we get into an argument over which one of us is prettier?"

And with that he heads straight into the flat's front room (after all, it's not his first time here). Seating himself in the white leather armchair opposite the door and nodding to the room's only other occupant as if he hasn't a care in the world. This occupant- a pretty, elfin, blond woman with flawless bone-structure and Martinique's slanted, cat-like brown eyes- nods warily in response.

"Good afternoon, Zoya," he says to the woman , shooting her his sharpest, brightest grin. "You're looking well. So nice of you to see me on such short notice."

A long-suffering sigh issues from the woman. "You say that as if I had a choice," she mutters, rolling her eyes heavenward. Getting up and reaching into her fridge, pulling out a small quarter bottle of vodka and adding some to her tea, muttering in Russian as she goes. "Sherlock Holmes," she says, "I was unaware I had angered the Gods to this degree: What on Earth brings you here? And how can I get you to go away again?"

John chortles. Sherlock shrugs. Reaches into his pocket- he notes that Zoya starts at the movement, she expects him to draw a weapon- and takes a brown paper envelope out, opens it. Pulls out some surveillance photos of the person who broke into Baker Street and planted Hough's threats for him.

He sets them on the table before him, gestures to the masked, black-clad, clearly female figure who the photos show letting herself into Baker Street through the bloody  _fire place_. Stares at Zoya for a moment.

"That's you," he says without preamble. His tone brooks no disagreement. "There's not another burglar-for-hire in the city who is sufficiently flexible to pull that off- It would require an operative who's double-jointed, which of course you and all your family are." He makes a show of inspecting his nails. "So it is definitely you. Either that, or one of your girls has decided to branch out on her own, a terrible notion when I thought that you and I had an understanding. After all, I saved your backside all those years ago…"

And he looks at the Russian woman steadily. Makes a show of tutting.

She glares at him with what would best be described as barely suppressed loathing.

"So how long are you going to make me stand here, until you admit what happened?" he asks. "Or is it that the great Tyotka Zoya no longer controls her own house, hmm? Do her daughters now have carte to take jobs on the side?"

And he leans back, watches Zoya's reaction to the images and his accusations. There's surprise in her expression, anger- But most importantly, embarrassment. A woman like Zoya would never willingly show such an emotion in front of Sherlock Holmes, no matter what their history, and this tells the detective that the work shown in the photos comes as a great surprise to her. That she probably knows who the intruder is, though it is not she. It's why he came here: Getting into Baker Street without  _anyone_ seeing would require a professional, and the best professional intruder in the city is Zoya Fomovna Nelson, late of Nizhniy Novgorod, now of Canary Wharf by way of her husband's hometown of Kingston, Jamaica. She's one of Holmes' earliest success stories: He'd found her involved in a diamond theft several years ago from The Dorchester, and had helped her evade the Russian gangster who had put her up to it. This was the source of her debt to him, much as it irked her, and today that debt would be paid in full.

Zoya looks up from the images and her eyes are calm. Steady. But there is something, something hard and cold raging in their depths.

 _It occurs to Sherlock that he probably wouldn't want to be the girl in the picture he's just shown her_.

A beat.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Holmes," she says tightly. "You continue, as ever, to be a firm supporter of my family and our trade." Sherlock thinks that might be laying it on a little thick but he says nothing and indicates to John with a quick, firm shake of his head that he should do likewise. Zoya owes him a favour, certainly, but whether such gratitude will extend to John is a good deal less clear. And Mary will  _kill_ him if he gets Watson beaten up by another gangster: The one in Peckham on Valentines Day was more than enough, apparently.

The silence stretches out some more.

"Do you know who this person is?" he asks eventually, when it becomes clear Zoya is not going to answer of her own volition. He gestures to the intruder in the photos. "I would like to speak with her: the objects she planted in my home have caused me and mine a great deal of upset-"

Zoya glares at him. "Even if I know who this is, why should I tell you?" she asks. Her voice is quiet. Dangerous. This is the creature he met ten years ago. "Rest assured that she will be punished for what she has done to you, that is all you need to know."

Sherlock holds up his hand. "With respect, Zoya Fomovna," he says quietly, "That is not enough. That is not all I need to know. I need to know who paid her, and I her to go on the record about it. It's important."

Zoya glares. "And my girl isn't?" she scoffs. "Besides, why should she do that? What could possibly be in that for her? No, I can't allow one of my girls to-"

Sherlock stands, leans over the table at her.

From anyone else this might seem intimidating, but it bothers Zoya not at all.

"This girl interfered in my home," he says tightly. "She interfered in my  _family._ She allowed someone who wishes to hurt my loved ones to do so with impunity, and she did so under your nose."

He cocks an eyebrow at the woman, shoots her his most arrogant look.

The anger of a true predator meets it, Zoya's expression turning achingly cold.

"You once told me that family is everything," he says quietly, biting out each word. "That's why I gave you your second chance ten years ago, and it's why I've always steered well clear of you, so long as you steer clear of me: You have a family-" he gestures to the house around him- "That you wish to defend.  _I can understand that notion now_. But the person who paid your girl to break into Baker Street is doing so in order to harm my family," he says quietly. "She's been helping a man named Oliver Hough torture the woman living with me, because she has left him and she won't let him abuse her anymore. And if I have to beat it out of you and every person in this flat I will do so-"

"Sherlock," John says, "Sherlock, that kid who answered the door can't be more than fourteen-"

Sherlock glares at him. "She's not you or Molly, that's the only pertinent fact here."

John shakes his head in disbelief. "But you can't- She's just a kid- You can't hold her responsible-"

Now it's Holmes' turn to scoff. "I don't hold her responsible. I hold Mummy Dearest here responsible. Because if she had taken more care of her own house then nobody would be breaking into mine. But since Mummy Dearest seems intent on shirking responsibility, then I will simply have to take it out on whoever comes to hand-"

"Enough. You've made your point." Zoya stands. Nods. Pulls out a large smart-phone.

She's glaring at the two men, but her gaze is calm enough; Sherlock knows, without being told however, that he will never walk unchallenged into her home again.

"If you say that this is a family matter then I believe you, Sherlock," she says softly. She glances at John and something… something almost tender moves in the depths of her gaze. "I understand the power of family, the strength of it. And for that reason, I will find out what you want to know."

And she pulls up a number on the phone, places a call. There's a moment as she puts it to her ear and in the farthest part of the house Sherlock hears the opening strains of  _Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want_ by The Smiths reverberate.

The owner of the phone picks up- Sherlock doesn't need to hear her through the hand-set to know that she's said  _Da?_ and without a word Zoya launches into the longest, angriest, most motherly rant in Russian that Sherlock has ever heard. Clearly telling the young woman what she thinks of her and what she's going to do to her for even attempting to take a job without clearing it with her mother first, and telling her that the consequences for such independence will be dire.

"But mum," he hears the girl say, "Mum, he works in the clinic with Tyrese- He's a good bloke, and that Sherlock guy stole his girlfriend- I was just trying to do him a favour-"

"A favour?" Zoya demands. "You didn't even charge him? You picked a fight with Sherlock Holmes and you didn't even make him pay you?" She shoots John a long-suffering look. "I have given birth to a moron," she tells him. "An idiotic moron. She was born backwards, the labour took three days, I should have known she would be slow." She turns her attention back to the phone. "Sweet Christ, girl," she's saying, "don't you know that you  _never_ give a civilian a freebie?" And she throws her hands upward, professional disgust at her daughter's unprofessional charity written all over her face.

John looks to Sherlock like he's trying to decide whether to be horrified or whether to laugh.

"Now you will come into the living room, and you will talk to Mr. Holmes," Zoya tells the girl. "You will go on the record about what you did for this idiot, Hough, and you will cooperate in every way you can. And if I  _ever_ hear of you taking a job without running it by me again, let alone not getting paid for it, I will have every electronic device in your room- including your mobile phone- confiscated and given to Oxfam, is that entirely clear, my darling girl?"

The phone hangs up and thirty seconds later Marina, Zoya's second eldest daughter stalks sulkily into the room. She's carrying an I-pad and her phone, and on it she has both emails and phone messages from Hough.

"I didn't do the last one," she tells Sherlock and John, "I thought that wanting real cat's blood was a bit too much, and getting into another woman's bed with a doll- Eugh."

She gives an exaggeratedly delicate shudder.

Sherlock reminds himself that this girl is nineteen at most, and that he therefore shouldn't shake her until her teeth rattle because it was only cat's blood that stopped her leaving gag gifts in his his Molly's- his girlfriend's- his friend's bed .

"But you were responsible for all the others?" Sherlock asks tersely instead. "Hough helped you plan them, gave you the dolls to plant? And you have proof of that?"

Marina nods. "Yeah. I'm not a complete muppet, I made sure I had proof of what he wanted me to do. Can never know when that sort of thing will come in handy, eh?" Her mother gives an approving nod. "But, like I said, I didn't take part in the last one: That was a little sick for my tastes. And I told him I wouldn't do the one he plans tonight-"

John and Sherlock's eyebrows both rise up. "What one tonight?" John asks. "What one, Marina?"

A small, cruel, entirely feminine smile appears on Marina's face. "Oh no," she purrs, "That would be telling…"

Her mother smacks her soundly on the back of the head once and she winces. Pouts. Apparently though, it is enough to make her abandon the Lolita act. "Ollie's planning on doing something tonight, in your place," she says instead. "He asked me to help just there, but I told him I wouldn't. That Molly of his might like playing with handcuffs and gags, but I don't-"

And with that she describes what Hough has planned for Molly, the level of detail she can go into disturbing even her mother.

Sherlock listens, and when she's finished he rings Molly to tell her to clear out of the flat and go stay in Mary's.

But he finds that his calls go straight to voicemail, and even Mrs. Hudson isn't picking up the hall phone.

He and John race home to Baker Street to discover that nobody is home at all.


	26. You Tell Me Doubt Is Devil-Born

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Please note that there's a little bit of swearing, mainly from Hough. But that said, let's get on with the story, it's nearly done now. Hobbits away, hey!

**YOU TELL ME DOUBT IS DEVIL-BORN**

Sherlock deals rather well with the stress that comes from derring-do.

_After all, he has been dealing with it, in one way or another, for most of his adult life._

Be it Moran's henchmen, General Shen's acrobatic assassins or Mycroft's shadowy operatives, he always knows how to handle them. A deft mix of sarcasm, brawn and his patently massive Big Bloody Brain allows him to make the most of any situation, to get out of any scrape. And it is this very knowledge that he  _will_ get out of things- only Moriarty has ever truly made him doubt it- that gives him his nonchalance regarding life or death. It gives him his confidence, which so many see as arrogance but which he sees simply as an illustration of fact. He survives. He thrives.  _It's what he does_. No matter what projectile fate elects to lob at him, no matter what he must do to ensure victory, in the end he walks away from any enemy intact and successful-

All of which means precisely jack and shit (in that order) now that he's trying to save Molly.

All of which means nothing now that he's let Hough get his hands on her, now that she's in real danger for the first time in six months.

He shakes his head angrily to himself, wondering why he didn't just order her to go stay with the Watsons once he realised that Baker Street was no longer safe for her- Why he let his asinine desire to see she was safe with his own two eyes take precedence over what would clearly have been best for her-

"We'll get the bastard, Sherlock," John says quietly beside him, even as he directs the cabbie to pull into a side street a few minutes walk from Hough's place. "He doesn't know we've talked to Marina, Lestrade and his team are on their way, and both of us are armed: He's not walking away from this one-"

Sherlock snorts derisively as he exits the car. "Just like he wasn't going to walk away from what he did at Baskerville?" He throws the words over his shoulder, takes off at a fast clip leaving John to pay the taxi-driver. He can feel adrenaline- nerves- tightening his body as he does so, the knowledge that he may be about to find Molly dead or injured setting something low, dark and angry buzzing in his chest. "You're an army man, John," he says as the doctor catches up to him, "surely you know how unlikely a happy outcome is in these circumstances-"

John takes his friend by the elbow, pulls until he slows to a halt though he is so agitated. Turns Sherlock around to face him, his expression serious and intent.

"Sherlock," he says quietly. "Sherlock, look at me."

Holmes makes a show of eye-balling him, just to illustrate how ridiculous he finds this, this… sentiment. John however doesn't react.

"First of all," he says instead, "Hope is never a ridiculous reaction when we the ones we love are in danger." Sherlock opens his mouth to contradict him, to point out that his statement is nonsense and that even if it wasn't, he does not  _love_ Molly Hooper. But though he opens his mouth to say so, the words don't come-

_And irritatingly, by the look on his face, John can guess why._

"Secondly," the other man continues, "We are going to find Molly, just like we are going to find Mrs. Hudson. And then we are either going to stop Hough and get him arrested, or one of us is going to stop him permanently." He gestures to the gun tucked into his inside pocket and Sherlock blinks. John doesn't- His years in the army have made him less willing to take a life, not more, and he didn't expect the threat implicit in Watson's words.

"It's not the first time I've killed to protect someone I care about," John says quietly at his expression. "And I know it's not the first time you have either. I just hope it's the last."

"You really need to stop hanging around with me, then," Sherlock says dryly. There is suddenly something which resembles a boulder lodged in his throat. He-  _He didn't expect this_. It has occurred to him that he may have to take Hough's life, and the knowledge that Molly may see him do it has made him shy away from the thought.  _He doesn't see how she'll ever fully trust him again, if she witnesses_ _ **that**_ _._  So to know that his friend has already made contingency plans, that his friend was willing to do this for him…

"Thank you, John," he says quietly. Curtly. "I- Thank you."

John sighs. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, yeah?"

And he nods, patting Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly before setting off ahead of him. Moving at an even faster pace, that straight-backed, sharp-eyed posture Sherlock associates with his military training coming to the fore. They've already decided on which way to play this: Sherlock is going to go in through the front door of Hough's house, assessing the situation and causing all manner of disruption. Keeping Ollie's attention completely on him and giving John a chance to get in through the back. If things go well then Hough should never even see John coming. He'll get in, sneak Mrs. Hudson and Molly (if possible) out the back while Sherlock finally gets a chance to share all his frustrations from this case with their cause, just in time for Lestrade to arrest Hough for the abusive, violent git that he is.

 _Et voila!_ Sherlock thinks.  _No more having to deal with Ollie "The Bastard," Hough. Whatever will I do with my Friday nights now?_

 _I'm sure Molly will have some excellent ideas about that,_ a voice which sounds suspiciously like John's chimes in his head, and the detective forces it away.

It's a good plan, and Sherlock knows it. At her mother's insistence Marina has provided them with a detailed layout of the house and how she'd break in, if it were a paying gig, as well as a (frankly worrying rundown) of what Hough has in-store for Molly. Though he may not be a) double-jointed or b) a professional cat-burglar, John seems quite confident that he'll be able to get into the house, and Zoya has agreed to field a call should he run into something he doesn't expect. She even offered to send young Martinique with the two men as technical adviser, but both Martinique and Sherlock quickly put paid to that idea:  _Sitting them both in a car while Sherlock was armed seemed a less than capital notion._ So despite this set-back, their current set-up means that John Watson essentially has the plans to Hough's house and a master thief on stand-by, should he encounter any technical difficulties-

Which is just as well, since now they're on the corner just down from Hough's house.

Sherlock can count at least three CCTV cameras surrounding the place, so there will be no way to pretend he didn't do what he's about to do.

_He can only hope that Hough hasn't patched into that video feed too, though he probably has._

With a quick nod he and John split up, John turning sharply and approaching the house from the rear. It's a nineteenth century mansion, broken up into flats by a property developer just before the boom went bust, but it still has the long driveway at the back where the original owners would have parked their carriages, just as it still has the remains of a coach-house (now a property in its own right.). John plans on using this to his advantage: He'll scale the roof of the one-story couch house, walk along the garden wall and from there climb up and onto the building's rear fire escape. From here he can easily climb into Hough's ground floor flat without being seen running across the back yard, or being caught on the security camera pinned above the front yard.

He just has to take out the security light at the back-  _Which he will, as soon as Sherlock has Hough at the door._

Sherlock, on the other hand, is going to do what he does best and make an entrance. Annoy his way into getting what he wants, all the while making sure that he puts Molly in as little danger as possible. From his interactions with Hough, it would seem that the man values his image far more than he values the people around him: Should Sherlock threaten to embarrass or disparage him in front of his neighbours, he suspects Hough will try to deal with the threat immediately, rather than stopping to think the reasons behind Sherlock's action through.  _Or disposing of Molly and Mrs. Hudson before going to argue with Holmes_. So long as Hough has an audience, he'll keep up his "nice guy," façade and John will have a chance to sneak Molly and Mrs. Hudson out, Sherlock thinks. He just has to hope that Hough doesn't smell a rat, and that he doesn't find himself forced into doing anything he could be charged for in front of all those CCTV cameras-

 _This_ _ **should**_ _be easy,_ he tells himself, ignoring the tight, wound-up ball of worry in his chest.  _This_ _ **will**_ _be easy, I'll see to it-_

And with that thought he barrels up the front steps to Hough's building, purposefully making his demeanour jumpy and agitated, slurring his words as if he's drunk.

Who knows, it might fool Hough. _And it will definitely fool the neighbours._

"Moooollllllyyyy!" he then yells at the top of his lungs, "Molly, come out to me, I know you're in there with that tosser!"

And he bangs loudly on the buildings front door, making sure to slip and slide all over the place, reinforcing the impression that he's inebriated. If Hough buys it then so much the better: he'll underestimate Sherlock physically when he squares up to him.

_And if the police are called, the most they'll be expecting is someone drunk and disorderly._

The front door to the building is pulled open, and Hough appears before him. He's wearing a bespoke three piece suit, his tie loose and his top three buttons opened. His stance is slightly wobbly- he  _is_ drunk- and he's carrying a tumbler of what smells like scotch in his hand. He's also smiling benignly, though the smile doesn't touch his eyes.

He inclines his head politely towards Sherlock and then raises his glass in salute, apparently to the little old lady in the house opposite who's watching proceedings through her twitching curtains. "Good evening, Annabel," Hough calls to her. "Don't worry, nothing to see here."

His gaze comes to rest on Sherlock and his eyes get colder still.

He leans into the detective, pitches his voice sotto voce.

"Get out of here," he says tightly, that mock-benign smile still plastered on his face. "I don't know what you're up to, Holmes, but embarrassing me won't help you-"

 _And he still thinks it's all about him,_ Sherlock muses in amazement.  _Surely I'm a far more entertaining narcissist than this?_

_I shall have to ask Mycroft some day._

"I'm not going anywhere, Ollie," Sherlock says brightly instead, mimicking the other man's relaxed stance and smile. Annabel across the way must be finding this  _enthralling._ "I'm just here to pick up Molly, and if you don't deliver her to me then the results will be… unpleasant."

He steps closer and Hough squares up to him; this time however Sherlock is in no mood to pretend he's the smaller of the two. He stares down at the miscreant from his rather greater height, makes sure to take in every aspect of his appearance. He can smell two types of perfume on Hough's shirt, one which he knows Mrs. Hudson favours, one which he recognises from Molly's body lotion. He can also see a long, brown hair sticking out from just beneath Hough's collar, and the colour, texture and shampoo scent he catches off it match Molly's too. This close he can see there's a smudge of red on Hough's cheek, angry and vivid as if he's recently been slapped. His knuckles are bruised slightly, as if he's delivered more than one retaliatory punch, and as the mental image of  _that_ flashes through Sherlock's head it's all he can do to hold onto his temper-

But no, he holds himself to calmness. Losing his temper will help nobody.

 _He needs to play this as cleverly as he does everything else_.

He tells himself that this is wise, that he needs to hold on until John can text him that he has both women safe and sound and out of that bloody house-

And then he looks up at Ollie, his gaze going over his shoulder and into his flat, and what he sees makes his blood boil.

Because he can see straight through the front door, into the hall and directly through to the open kitchen door beyond it. Molly is lying in a heap on the floor of that kitchen, pulling herself towards Sherlock by her legs and hips, leaving a slithering, sticky trail of blood in her wake. One of her eyes is nearly bruised shut, and every visible inch of her body is covered in contusions. She's favouring one arm in a way which suggests that the other has been injured, though both are bound behind her back with plastic tags. There's a gag across her mouth- it's a stretch of black gaffer tape, by the looks of things- and her face is tracked with tears. Her eyes make contact with his and even through the gag, he knows she's calling his name, asking for him to save her-

For a split second Sherlock stares- He didn't know, she never indicated how horrifying Hough's practices were- And then two things happen simultaneously. Firstly, Sherlock sees John Watson enter his line of vision, Mrs. Hudson held tightly to his side. The older woman gives a small cry of upset as she sees what's been done to Molly, but she sinks down to her knees, trying to help the younger woman up. As she does so Sherlock drags his gaze back to Hough, not wanting to give the game away, but as she tries to stand Molly slips, her foot flying backwards on Hough's highly polished floorboards. Her foot rams into the skirting board of the hall, making a thunderously loud bang and knocking over a small table and a vase.

Both crash to the floor and roll. And roll. And roll.

 _It is, quite possibly, the single loudest moment of Sherlock's life thus far_.

Instantly Hough turns and sees what's happening, his face snarling into a mask of rage. Without a moment's hesitation he takes his tumbler of scotch and hurls it at Molly and Mrs Hudson, the glass shattering on impact, spraying alcohol and shards everywhere as he hurls himself back into the house. Mrs. Hudson jumps and screams, darting backwards towards John. Molly however looks up and Sherlock can see blood on her face where a sliver of glass has cut her cheek, her eyes dark with helplessness and rage. As Hough nears Molly John pushes Mrs. Hudson behind him, reaches into his jacket for his weapon, even as Hough grabs Molly and yanks her forward by her hair. Smashing her shoulders into the hallway mirror and shattering it before pulling her to her feet. She gives a small scream of pain, thrashing her body around and trying to use her weight to pull away. Trying to get the Hell away from him, kicking and fighting as best she can. Hough's screaming, calling her things like "whore," and "bitch," and "traitor," his rage astonishing to see; He's picked up one of the shards of the mirror, and he's holding it to her throat, his other arm winched around her waist like a vice.

_For the first time it occurs to Sherlock that Oliver Hough is as mad as Moriarty ever was, and he too is intent harming someone Sherlock loves._

It all only takes seconds; Hough drags Molly to her feet and pulls her in front of him. Presses his back to the wall behind him, Hooper now held before him like a human shield. John has drawn his gun, is standing mere centimetres from the pair. Molly is breathing rapidly, her chest rising and falling in an unnatural, jumping rhythm which Sherlock knows can't bode well. "Take on fucking step towards me," Hough snarls, "And the little whore gets sliced to slivers." He nods to John. "Now put your weapon on the floor and step away from me, we're getting out of here."

Sherlock knows that if he gets close enough, he can subdue Hough. He won't even need a gun, hunting Moriarty's network has given him a rather more specific skill-set than that he previously employed. But if he tries to get close to Molly then Hough will kill her. He has no doubt of this, he's seen a madman's eyes before. If he doesn't though, he'll probably kill her anyway, once he gets away from them, and that will be excruciatingly slow and painful.

_One way or another though, Molly will be dead, and that is unacceptable._

So he holds up his hands, nods to John to do the same. Watches Watson slowly put his gun on the floor and step away from it, though his jaw works, showing how much the acquiescence costs him. "Step out of the way," Hough tells Sherlock. "Step out of the way now." Sherlock does as he's told, his eyes on Molly's.

 _I'm here,_ he tries to tell her.  _It may not be alright now, but it will be, I promise._

He lets Ollie move right by him, lets him step out into the street.

He keeps his eyes on Molly at all times, having to tamp down the desire to just yank her out of Hough's arms. A distraction, he thinks, all he needs is one moment's distraction. Let Hough's gaze waver from Molly for a second and he'll take the bastard down-

 _And that's when, alarmingly enough, a wonderfully distracting thing happens_ _._

Because there's a sudden flash of light, the not-so-far-off call of a police siren. It's so loud that it takes Hough's attention for a moment and that's all that Sherlock needs. He leans forward and grabs Molly, yanks her away from Ollie. Pulling her close and spinning, presenting Ollie with his back so that the blow meant for her will come to him. Sherlock feels the shard of glass dig into his shoulder, feels the pain of it. He doesn't let it stop him from laying into Ollie, from finally giving into the rage he feels and pummelling the git as hard as he can. Molly lets out a little scream, trying to pull Sherlock off now he's been wounded. The other man hisses in pain, falling to his knees, and Holmes ignores her, determined to see this through. Hough forces himself forward with a snarl, knocking Sherlock onto his back, his hand going around Molly's throat even as Sherlock tackles him again-

There's a loud bang and a sudden light. A bullet pierces the quiet of evening.

A flash of scarlet bloom in Ollie's chest, obscene against his pale white shirt.

Suddenly- Suddenly everything is silent and still. Unmoving. Petrified.

They turn to see Mrs. Hudson holding John's gun, her hands shaking as Ollie falls to the floor.


	27. The Maidens Gathered Strength and Grace

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Zerestor, Angryangryowl and chironsgirl. This is the second last chapter, though there may be an epilogue. So, for the second last time, enjoy. Hobbits away, hey!

**THE MAIDENS GATHERED STRENGTH AND GRACE**

_Bloody morons,_ Sherlock thinks, craning his neck to look out over the crime-scene.

_I know the orange blanket is de rigeur for trauma victims, but can't they see it's not_ _**me** _ _who's hurt?_

And he glares at Lestrade, who's sitting on Ollie's step and speaking very quietly to Mrs. Hudson. The DI's holding her hands and nodding as she speaks to him, her shoulders shaking with tears as she recounts what she did to Hough. John's sitting beside her, his face set in a frown, occasionally interspersing her version of events with his own. From what Sherlock can tell-  _his lip-reading is rusty, rather than faulty_ \- the good doctor has left a great deal of Zoya Fomovna's involvement in the scheme out of the official report, something for which Sherlock is oddly grateful.

 _Little Marina will probably be grateful too,_ he thinks caustically _, since I can't imagine her Mama being pleased with the turn of events here tonight_.

Not that Sherlock is disappointed with how everything ended up. Hough is long gone, rushed away in an ambulance with a gunshot wound Holmes doubts he'll survive.  _And even if he does, there's no way he's getting away with_ _ **this.**_ The paramedics tried to send Molly to the same hospital but she point blank refused to go, refused even to leave the crime scene until Sherlock could come with her. The cops on scene had shot one another pointed looks at that, Anderson more than anyone, but Donovan had moved to stand in front of the younger woman, her arms crossed belligerently over her chest and the message had been clear:  _Gossip about the freak's girlfriend on your own time, boys. Or deal with me._

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, the boys had elected to give that a miss.

So Sherlock and Molly ended up being patched up in the same ambulance, the paramedics dealing with Sherlock's shoulder-wound easily enough ( _doubt there'll even be a scar,_ he sniffs) while they slowly categorised Molly's injuries. It was through this that Sherlock got to hear about her ordeal, through this that she slowly, hesitantly explained all that had been done to her. How she'd stood up to Hough, how she'd screamed that she'd rather be dead than go back to him. How she'd thrown anything within grabbing distance in Baker Street at him and then lunged for the door. It had taken his threatening Mrs. Hudson to get her to leave 221B.

And it had taken bruising one of her eyes shut to get her to stop screaming that she would never, ever belong to him again.

At first she'd appeared unwilling to tell the whole story, glancing at Sherlock every two seconds as she spoke. It seemed she was worried about distressing or upsetting him. _And wasn't that just Molly Hooper to a T?_  So, after the third hesitant stop-then-start he had stood up, strode over to the other side of the ambulance. Gestured for her to stand up too- she did so uncertainly- and then sat down in her place. For a moment Molly had stared down at him with wide eyes, lip bitten, unsure what to make of his behaviour-

And then Sherlock had held his hand out to her, twined his fingers through hers when she took it.

 _It's alright,_ that's what that action means between them, and he knows it, as does she.

So he'd tugged her towards him, settling her in his lap in that pose they'd adopted the first night he'd asked her about giving physical comfort. He'd put his good arm around her waist and tucked her head under his chin, and in this position she was finally able to explain to the paramedics all that she'd been through. Sherlock listened, and every so often when her breath caught as if a panic attack were about to begin, he'd tightened his arm around her-  _It's alright,_ that means,  _you're safe now. I am here, my Molly._ She got through most of the story that way, before it was time for her to take off her shirt and have her ribs checked. She'd stiffened suddenly at that, had haltingly asked Sherlock to step outside, murmuring something about her not wanting him to see her like this-

Sherlock had been about to argue-  _what "this," could possibly make looking at Molly unpleasant for him? -_  but when he'd seen the look on her face, he'd decided that maybe he should go check on Mrs. Hudson. Or John. Or anyone who would allow him to get away from Molly and that sudden, haunted expression.

Which was how he'd ended up sitting here with yet another blanket over his shoulders, watching his friends be cross-examined by Lestrade. Watching the closest thing he had to a mother these days shudder and weep as she explains what she's done to keep him and his safe-

He knows that he shouldn't be angry but here and now, sitting on this stupid bloody street in this stupid bloody blanket, he can't help feeling that the price of this eventuality has been far too high.

"You brooding there, posh boy?" he hears Donovan's voice then, and when he looks over his shoulder at her she'd grinning.

In the distance he can see Anderson glaring at them both, and if it weren't the sort of thing which would get back to Molly and upset her then Sherlock's pretty certain he'd give the tech something to  _really_ glare about. The idea amuses him greatly.

Sally must follow his line of thought because she grins, biting the inside of her cheek. "If it helps, you should know I've got a new girlfriend," she says wryly. "She's on the job so if you try anything, Sherlock, no matter how funny, it'll get back to her." She shoots him a sly grin. "And I won't get lucky for a week."

"Can't have that." And Sherlock moves over slightly, inviting her to sit down on his section of the kerb.

They both hear Anderson's annoyed harrumph and they both grin more widely.

"How are you?" Sally asks quietly then. "Heard you got yourself injured."

Sherlock attempts to shrug, and the pain in his shoulder instantly reminds him of how right Sally is. "Something like that," he says, rather than examine that thought, "though not as badly as some others tonight."

And his gaze is drawn to Mrs. Hudson, who's still speaking animatedly with Lestrade, John beside her.

Her tears have dried a little, but she still looks wan and thin.

Sally follows his line of sight, understanding dawning. "She's had a time of it, alright," she says quietly. "But you should remember: She's a tough lady. She must be, she willingly lives next door to you."

"She does," Sherlock snorts. "Though I'm not sure she'll even want that now- I'm not sure I can blame her if she doesn't. This is even worse than that business with Neilson, and  _that_ involved the CIA-"

As he speaks, his attention is tugged back over to Molly. He wonders what it is that's happened to her that she doesn't want him seeing, and suddenly he feels Donovan's hand come to rest warmly on his shoulder.

He feels a twinge of annoyance that he's apparently so transparent, but he pushes the thought away.

"She'll be fine, Sherlock," the younger woman is saying gently. "She's strong, and she's determined, and eventually she'll be fine. Have faith in that." She pauses for a second, stares at him before pushing onwards. "Just like, eventually, Molly will be fine too."

_Sherlock can't help but think that there's no certainty of that._

"She doesn't-" he stops for a moment, uncertain why he's saying this. It feels disloyal somehow to Molly, and yet he's so bewildered and he doesn't know who else he can ask.  _Mrs. Hudson needs John right now_. "She didn't want me seeing her," he says quietly. "When they started examining her, she didn't want me seeing her." He looks askance at Donovan. "What could be so bloody scary that she doesn't think  _I_ can handle it? What could break in her that much?"

Donovan sighs. "And once again, posh boy, you forget that it's not about you."

She squeezes his shoulder a little to take the sting out of her words, but she utters them all the same.

Sherlock frowns, and from the corner of his eye he sees John's attention flicker momentarily to him, sees his best friend assume the expression which Sherlock knows means,  _must check on the git before I head off for the night._

He is very strongly tempted to stick out his tongue, but he resists.

"Can I tell you a story?" Sally says then. She utters the words to her hands, her expression surprisingly unguarded.

Sherlock is so used to seeing her usual, tough-as-nails façade that for a moment he is genuinely surprised.

"Of course," he says, inclining his head. "Work away: I'm not going anywhere."

She smiles a little. "Well, if you insist." And she holds out her hand, pulls up her sleeve. There's a mark there on her wrist, a healed cigarette burn by the looks of it, which Sherlock has never seen before. But then, every time he sees her she's in long sleeves or wearing her watch over it so he supposes he shouldn't be surprised.

"I knew this girl once," Sally begins then. "Stubborn as a mule. Sharp as a whip. Took up with this bloke when she was fourteen, thought the sun, moon and stars shone out of his arse. Didn't occur to her there might be a reason a twenty-one year old can't get a girlfriend his own age, but that's teenagers for you: Thick as pig-shit when it matters."

Sherlock opens his mouth to interrupt and then thinks better of it.

He's discovered that with… emotional things, it's usually best to wait until the person is finished before he starts bombarding them with questions.

"Anyway, she decides to move in with the bastard, decides to settle down and start having babies," Sally says. Her tone is becoming a little less… steady. "She gives up school, gives up all links to her family, gives up everything that made her  _her_.

And then she disappears, just disappears, for five bloody years."

Sherlock frowns, not entirely sure where this is going, but before he can say as much Sally turns to look at him and her eyes- They're blazing.

"I found her living in a one room flat with a kid and no money, terrified and broken by what that bastard had done to her," she says quietly. "She'd left him but he didn't get the message, and every time she'd move, he'd move too. He'd followed her up and down the country by the time I found them, and she ended up having almost every one of her bones broken at least once. The guy was a colossal prick, but she was helpless in the face of his dickery- Or so she thought." A sudden, feral smile splits her features. "I soon put her right about that."

Sherlock frowns at her. "Why are you telling me this?"

Donovan sighs. "Because that girl's name was Amy Donovan," she says quietly. "She's my sister- I'm sure you know about her- and she's the reason that I became a copper." Sherlock's eyebrows raise in surprise- He'd known, but he'd never expected Donovan to tell him that. After all, he's usually the last person in whom people confide.

A beat of silence, uncertain and eloquent, stretches out.

"Molly's quiet," Sally says then. "She's gentle. Meek, almost. But then that's no news to you, you've known  _that_  all along.

What Molly also is, however, is  _strong._ Strong like an Amazon, strong like a Valkyrie. Strong like your landlady, and strong like my sister. It took guts to leave Hough, and it took guts to ask you for help considering how you used to treat her. It even took guts to come back here, just to keep Mrs. Hudson safe.

So with all those guts flying about, you have to trust that when she's ready, she'll be brave enough to let you see what happened to her- everything that happened to her-"

Sherlock frowns. He thinks he understands. "So it's like any other wound?" he asks tentatively. "It must- It must be covered for a sufficient amount of time, until it ceases bleeding?"

Sally nods. "Until the risk of infection is through, and there's no more puss, yeah. It has to scab over." Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust at the terminology and Sally shrugs. "Hey, it's your analogy, posh boy, not mine."

And with that she stands up, holds out a hand to Sherlock. He lets her pull him into standing and then makes his way towards the ambulance in which Molly is still seated.

Donovan gives him a little nod of encouragement and then abandons him, wandering over towards her guv'nor. Lestrade looks up at his good right hand and smiles, a look which tells Sherlock that he knows how personal Donovan's stake in this case has been. But Holmes turns away from them, clears his throat and then taps gently on the open door of Molly's ambulance. A paramedic's head appears from inside, frowning, but when he sees who it is he relaxes. "We're nearly done, mate," he says.

"It's no problem," Sherlock says quietly, "Just tell Molly- Tell Molly I'll be waiting for her when she's finished- If she wants an escort back to the flat, that is."

He waits for what feels like an eternity, but eventually she exits the ambulance and lets a squad car drive her back to Baker Street.

She holds Sherlock's hand all the way home, and when they get into the flat she pulls him into his room and into his bed, and she falls asleep curled in his arms without saying a word.


	28. Dear Spirit, Happy Star

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. This is the last chapter, though there will be an epilogue. And possibly a stand-alone, if there's any appetite for it. And thanks for her reviews go to chironsgirl, hope this conitnues to entertain. 

**DEAR SPIRIT, HAPPY STAR**

When Sherlock wakes up the next day, he doesn't quite know what to do.

Oh, he knows in the short-term. He'll open his eyes. Stretch a little. Have his usual, early morning, not-in-front-of-the-neighbours-because-it's-uncouth scratch. He'll work his remaining sock off his left foot- it's  _always_  his left foot- and stick his toes out from under duvet, because the feeling of having one limb cool when the rest of him is warm is strangely, well, satisfying. He'll collate the data from last night, review his prospects for new cases. Think about whether or not there's any point in getting up when he's this tired, and whether he has any food in the house. (Though since Molly moved in there's a good chance there is). At some point, possibly quite soon, he knows he is going to have to take a piss, and he will find himself wishing when he does so- as he always does- that his bathroom were not quite so far away from his bed-

But beyond that, Sherlock must admit that he is flummoxed.

_Beyond that, he doesn't know what the future holds._

Because when he looks down, he sees a woman asleep on his chest, her lips pressed against his sternum, one arm wrapped around him like she's fully convinced Lucifer will rise up from Hades and take him away at any moment. She is breathing peacefully, the feel of her strangely fragile where she is pressed against him. The weight of her is warm and honest and, and…  _welcome_ , though he usually likes touch not at all.

And he hasn't the slightest idea what to do about  _that,_ hasn't the slightest inkling...

After all, Molly and his relationship has always been predicated upon protecting her from Hough: If that business is ended, then what is he to her now? What is she to him? What are they to one another? An image flashes into his mind, that night Molly and he nearly- They nearly-  _Well, that's one thing they could be to one another_ , his mind whispers-

It's so very real and so very inappropriate now she's been injured that he tries to push it away.

But he can't. For a moment he's inside the memory, her arms about him, her small, perfect breast filling his palm as she tugs his hair and kisses him sweetly. It's… He's not used to recall being this crisp, this immediate. Normally when he remembers something there's a safe distance built into the process already: It's the only thing which keeps a mind like his sane. But this? It's completely immersive. It's like he's living the moment again, only this time he's feeling everything more acutely because this time he can control it, this time he can savour it-

Molly makes a moue in her sleep, her brow crinkling with worry, arms tightening around him.

She shakes her head slightly, murmurs something which sounds like, "no," into his chest

She shifts and as she does so, Sherlock feels her free arm brush against a rather, ahem, sensitive part of his anatomy. A part of his anatomy that the memory of her kisses is making a great deal more sensitive than a gentleman- or a lady who's been through what Molly's been through- might want. Sherlock stiffens (no pun intended) unsure of what to do next, and as he does so he sees something which immediately makes him want to pull away-

Because Molly shifts again and as she does so she turns her face, inadvertently showing him the bruises Hough inflicted on her. The black eye from his beatings, the cut from the whisky tumbler which he through viciously at her and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock freezes: As suddenly as the memory of her kisses intruded, the memory of her expression last night in the ambulance comes to him. The haunted, wary look as she asked him to leave because she didn't want him to, "see her like this." And older than that, the memory of her lying, hurt and broken, in the Baskerville Infirmary, another thing he hadn't managed to protect her from. Another thing that was done to her, that she didn't want. She frowns again, shaking her head and the sight drains any arousal out of Sherlock as surely as a cold shower might have done-

 _Shower,_ he thinks.  _Yes. That's it. I'll definitely take a shower._

_And then I'll shave._

_And then I'll go down to Speedy's and buy us some breakfast._

_And then I'll check the website and I'll call John and see how he's doing._ _I might even call in on Mrs. Hudson, since she had a hard night of it too, last night._

_And then I'll read the papers and look at my cases and bother Lestrade and, and- I'll come up with something which won't bother Molly. I'll put some effort into it… Big Bloody Brain has to be useful for something…_

So he slips out of the bed quickly, confused by his up-down feelings but certain he's doing the right thing. Pulling on his house-coat as he does so, since the last thing Molly needs right now is some strange man wandering around her in a state of undress. He pads towards the bathroom- it is indeed not nearly near enough to his bed- and pulls the door shut. Turns on the shower and waits for the water to heat. He's never seen the point of spending a long time under the spray but today he does, and not only because he hasn't the remotest idea what to say to the woman in his bed once he's finished-

"Sherlock?" he hears a tap on the bathroom door, hears Molly's voice come hesitantly through it.

She's awake, he thinks, and then mentally berates himself for his mind's incredible ability to state the obvious.  _Mycroft would be so proud._

For a moment he's tempted to pretend he can't hear her, but he suspects that that's unfair and A Bit Not Good so he raises his voice to answer her. "There should be enough hot water in your bathroom," he calls out, trying to make his voice sound considerate. "I won't use it all up-"

"What?" The door opens and she walks quietly in, her head down, still in the clothes she fell asleep in last night. There's enough steam built up on the glass of the shower doors to offer some modesty, but Sherlock can't help feeling a little… exposed. Like he's imposing on her, which is ridiculous because she's the one who walked in on him. And besides, he knows that he has absolutely nothing to worry about in the nudity stakes…  _Doesn't he?_

For some strange reason, he finds himself hoping that he does not.

Molly must understand that because she keeps her gaze on the ground, her lip bitten and twisted as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Sherlock wasn't aware it was possible for a human being to look that nervous, and he regularly accuses people of murder, but there you have it.

"Couldn't hear you," she says sheepishly.

She has to pitch her voice quite loudly to be heard over the shower.

It occurs to Sherlock that he really should turn it off, but he's not sure the awkward silence that would generate would be any better.

_And the steam might go away, which would be Very Not Good, what with him not wanting to impose on her, and all._

So the silence stretches out: He can feel his annoyance, his discomfort at not knowing what to do, raise its head. Can feel the desire to spit out a deduction clawing at his larynx and it takes a great deal of willpower to force it down. But as surely as he can see that, he now understands  _why_ he wants to do it (there was a rather long conversation about that when Molly first moved in and he insulted her taste in books because he was uncomfortable seeing her under things in the laundry basket). Deductions are apparently his defence mechanism, since he usually pulls them out when he's feeling vulnerable or stressed. And since he knows that, and he knows what she's been through, he's determined not to say anything which might make her uncomfortable-

"My, this is uncomfortable," Molly announces to her toes.

The tips of her ears have turned pink and oh, how thoughtful, Sherlock's ear tips have decided to match them.

He wasn't aware his skin pigmentation could be so bloody cooperative, but apparently it has acquired that skill. Hurrah.

He clears his throat. "Yes, well, you did walk in on me in the shower, Molly," he points out.

He says the words to a spot somewhere beside her right shoe.

Molly shrugs, still looking at her toes. "I did," she mumbles, and it's only that he can make out the shape of her lips in the mirror over the sink that Sherlock knows what she said. "I just… I just had to talk to you."

And she takes a deep breath, squeezes her eyes shut. For a moment Sherlock feels his usual panic at the thought of her crying, but no tears fall and when she opens her eyes they're surprisingly calm. "I have to do something, Sherlock," she says, and I need you to- That is, I want you to- I hope you understand that-" She stops. Sighs. Rakes a hand through her hair.

"Oh, bugger, I'll just get it over with and see what happens," she announces.

And with that she toes off her socks (she's not wearing any shoes) and reaches for her track-suit bottoms (being cut out of her jeans because they were evidence had destroyed the ones she was wearing last night). As Sherlock watches in mounting approbation-  _What on Earth is she playing at?-_ she pulls her t-shirt over her head and shucks it. Does the same with her knickers and bra, the latter landing and spinning, quite unexpectedly, on the sink's tap. The last thing she does is pull her hair down and then she's naked, completely and utterly starkers in front of him, with her big brown eyes and her bitten lips and her little, hurt, utterly lovely body that's been through so much that looking at it makes Sherlock want to thump someone-

"May I?" she says, gesturing to the shower.

She's still biting her lip, a blush spreading from her navel to the very tips of her ears.

Sherlock was unaware it could multitask. He applauds its vigour.

He nods, not entirely certain where she's going with this, knowing only that he should probably be there- That certain parts of his anatomy are quite insistent that he be there-

And then she pulls open the shower door and steps inside, under the spray though keeping some distance from him.

She hisses with the heat and does this funny, hoppy little dance from foot to foot as she tries to find a comfortable position in an object which was really only built for one. Sherlock stares down at her from his nine-inches-in-difference height and forces himself to look at her face, only her face, though it's bruised and cut and damaged.

_She is, he has to admit, very, very beautiful._

A beat.

"Um, Molly?" he says, because he has to ask it, he's really rather confused now. "Why are you standing naked in my shower?"

For a moment a shadow passes over her face, that same look he remembers from last night in the ambulance and though he doesn't understand entirely why, he feels terrible. Like he should put his clothes on and leave the hot water to her.

Molly narrows her eyes at his expression. "That, that right there," she says. "That's why I'm standing in your shower, Sherlock."

He raises his eyebrows practically to his widows' peak in question but she presses on regardless.

"Because- Because you're nervous of me now, and I'm nervous of you," she's saying. "And if we let it go on… Well, we're both brilliant at not poking into things we don't want to deal with, and this could become something massive we don't want to work through."

And she takes a deep breath and then takes a step towards him, her hand reaching out and splaying against his solar plexus.

Her other hand reaching our to tentatively, gently, touch the small of his back. It sends an electric shock zinging through his spine.

"We're not good at talking, Sherlock," she's saying. She's staring, very intently, it seems, at his chest. "Neither of us is. And I'm… Last night, I was hurt very badly. I- I'm not going to be over that for a while, and I'm not going to be ready to, to do the things I want to do with you, for a very long time. But I-" She stops again, screws up her face in annoyance (probably with herself) and as easily as it did the last time, Sherlock's hand comes up to her cheek. Cups it.

He reaches forward, really without thinking, and places a kiss on her forehead.

"What is it, Molly?" he asks quietly, and now she bites her lips, now she looks on the verge of tears. Now, because he's close enough to see it. Now, he suspects, because she'll let him do so.

"I… He hurt me, Sherlock," she says quietly. "He… He said he was going to make it so that nobody would want me again." As she says the words, her shoulders turn in on themselves, folding her body into Molly's old pose, the morgue mouse Mycroft used to call it.

Sherlock pulls her to him, wraps his arms around her because he knows what that means and he know what he wants to say to her.

_I am here, you're safe. It's alright now, my Molly._

She looks up at him and he looks down at her and it's the most peculiar thing, but he has the notion he's looking right inside her. Not at her deeds but who she is, her… soul, he thinks a poet would call it, if that poet were being an annoying, unimaginative, hackneyed twat.

_Although, even if he were an annoying, unimaginative, hackneyed twat, he'd still be right._

"He said he was going to make me ugly, Sherlock," she's whispering into his skin. "He said he'd make me so ugly that you wouldn't-" she corrects herself- "that no-one would want me anymore. That's why…"

And she gestures to her back, shows it to him. It's criss-crossed with bruises, and here and there he can see small lacerations, small cuts. Not enough to kill her or to require stitches, but enough to hurt her. Enough to carve into her skin that Oliver Hough Was Here. They stand out against her flesh, a constellations of hurts, the wound Hough gave her in the car on the way to Baskerville still stark and bright over her kidneys- An older sign of The Bastard's affections-

So this, Sherlock thinks, is what she didn't want him to see last night.  _She didn't want him thinking she's ugly._

But such marks couldn't possibly make her ugly, he thinks, they're the marks of her bravery, of her survival. Doesn't she know that?

Sherlock looks down at those bright brown eyes, closed, her lip bitten in the effort of keeping her emotions under wraps, and he belatedly realises that, inexplicably, she does not.

 _Well,_ he thinks.  _We shall have to do something about_ _ **that.**_

So he turns the water off. Sherlock doesn't know all that much about touching, but he knows it's about giving comfort most of the time; It may not be possible to kiss something better, but a kiss can make something  _feel_  better all the same. And with that in mind, he thinks he finally understands what Molly is trying to tell him, however bluntly she's going about it. As much as he needs reassurance that his attentions are welcome- and he suspects he does- she also needs reassurance that her body is still welcomed by him. That everything they've been through in the last year has not just been about protecting her from Oliver bloody Hough.

So Sherlock takes her hand- "I'm far too tall to do this in here," he tells her, "We'd best go back into the bedroom." He brings two towels in with them and they dry each other, and then Sherlock very calmly, very matter-of-factly lays her down on his- their- bed and kisses every scar on Molly's back. The nervousness he encountered that night they almost had sex doesn't raise its head, but that's because he needn't be nervous about this. This isn't about his prowess, or what he might or might not get to do, this is about what Molly wants. What Molly needs.

At first she's nervous, trying to interrupt, engage, distract him.

Sherlock's having none of it, and though he answers her questions he keeps going, stopping only occasionally to inquire whether she's alright.

She doesn't say yes every time, but when he moves to stop she asks him not to go.

Eventually she relaxes, and the kisses become caresses. The caresses become kisses. Neither of them are wearing any clothes and after a while that feels natural, wanted. Right.  _After a while, it even feels safe._  Sherlock's had enough sex (and watched enough porn) to know that there's an expectation that comes with nudity, that something will get inserted into something, eventually. That somehow human sexuality should be as explicable and banal as an IKEA schematic (without the little plastic screws.) But that's not who he is, and that's not who she is.

And since they're the only people involved in this, well, it's they that decide what expectations get fulfilled.

So they take their time. Get to know one another in  _this_ way. When things get a little too intense- he really wasn't aware someone beside him could make his cock feel that way- they stop. Catch their breath. Talk and laugh and touch and tussle.

And then they begin again.

_It's really... It's really rather marvelous._

By the time night falls there's a room in Sherlock's Mind Palace devoted to the pathologist. There are so many things he's learned about her today, and the learning will go on and on. (And on, if his cock has its way, and on and on). They fall asleep together, naked this time, and though they've not made love- her phrase, not his, though he's warming to it- Sherlock knows the wait won't kill him. Patience is a virtue, and with her he will have it in spades. So long as Molly no longer harbours the slightest notion that he finds her ugly, he thinks, that's a result, a good result…

They'll do the same tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, until one day she's ready. Until the day they both are.

_But that's not today, and that's fine with Sherlock._

He falls asleep smiling for the first time since John left and when he wakes up the next morning, he realises he's smiling still.


	29. Epilogue: Familiar To The Stranger's Child

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. And now, for the last time, hobbits away, hey! And happy new year!

**EPILOGUE: FAMILIAR TO THE STRANGER'S CHILD**

_Six Years Later_

"Mummy," Miri Holmes says quietly, "There's a strange man staring at us."

And she tugs on her mother's hand, pulls her to a stop.

Indicates with one imperious, chubby finger where the person who has caught her attention is.

Sherlock and Molly Holmes both halt. Look around. Their eyes immediately coming to rest on the be-suited figure standing on the opposite side of Paddington Station at whom their daughter is pointing. With a murmured, "I'll handle this," Sherlock leaves his family and pads over to the other side of the platform, his gaze boring into the interloper with surprising harshness. One might almost think that he held some sort of grudge against the man, though judging by his aggressive, slightly-threatening demeanour one would be disinclined to stop him and ask about it.

_And one would be wise not to do so._

As he reaches the man Sherlock comes to a halt, crosses his arms over his chest. He has lost none of the extra muscle and heft his years fighting Moriarty's network brought him, and it makes him look more intimidating than most.

_Besides, this is about his family._

"Explain," he tells the man tersely. "Don't be boring."

The stranger heaves a martyred sigh, uses the curved handle of his brolly to tip his bowler hat back on his head. His gaze is speculative.

"I had thought that domestic felicity would improve your temperament, Brother Dearest," he says sarcastically. "Alas, I fear I was overly optimistic."

"Optimism has never been your strong-suit, Mycroft," Sherlock replies tartly. "And I seem to recall your lack of it leading to your current predicament. So tell me, what are you doing here?"

And he steps into his brother's space, blocking his view of his wife and daughter.

 _Mycroft,_ he vows, _is not coming near them._

And judging by the look on his face, he knows it.

The elder Holmes shrugs though, an elegant, poised gesture. "I had heard about the little one," he says carelessly. "I thought it time I meet her."

"Well, she doesn't want to meet you," Sherlock snaps. "Not after the way you treated her mother." And he leans in closer, his tone sneering. For a moment that night five years ago moves behind his eyes, Molly crying as Mycroft claimed that marrying her would destroy Sherlock's sobriety. Molly trying to make peace between them even after all Mycroft had done, after all her suffering under Hough's Mycroft-sponsored thumb. When Sherlock had chosen a side in that conflict, he had never doubted that he chose well-

_It hadn't been his fault that news of his brother's impromptu surveillance snafu had sent that brother into a governmentally-designated exile from which, it appears, he has only just returned._

But he's not willing to think of that now _._ "I take care of my family, Mycroft," he mutters harshly instead. "You neglected to do so with Hough, and you suffered the cost; You lost your right to us. So run along now, dear brother, and suffer on-"

And he leans back onto his heels, arms crossed, well pleased with his words. Well pleased with his brother's discomfited reaction to them. It's been six years since they buried Hough, since years since Mrs. Hudson was cleared of his murder, and for Mycroft to turn up here, demanding things, after what he helped put Molly through?

Sherlock bares his teeth at the thought: He's not bloody having  _that._ Not for one moment.

_He's really rather surprised Mycroft hadn't guessed how this would play out._

Or maybe he did. Because for a moment Mycroft turns away, his eyes coming to rest on Molly and Miri, and as Sherlock watches something- something which might almost be contrition- moves in their depths. It's been six years since the debacle with Hough and it is possible that he has lost his knack for reading the other man's expressions, but if he didn't know better, Sherlock might almost think his brother looked… bereft. Yearning.  _Sorry._

He must be imagining it.

Mycroft's gaze snaps up to Sherlock's though, his expression turning disgusted as he sees the understanding in his sibling's gaze, and instantly Moriarty's Iceman is back.

"Yes, well, never let it be said that I was so gauche as to outstay my welcome," he bites out tartly. "Give my regards to the morgue mouse and the little poppet, won't you?"

And he spins on his heel, preparing to go. His brolly held elegantly before him, almost like a Medieval knight wielding a lance. He must truly be intent on Sherlock because he doesn't notice the flash of movement beside him, doesn't hear a soft voice say his name. He hesitates and suddenly Molly is in front of them both, Miri holding her hand, one curly, brown plait twirled around her fist. She watches her uncle with wide blue eyes, so like her father's that for a moment they seem to startle Mycroft as they come to rest on him.

He opens his mouth to speak and for the first time since he tangled with Irene Adler, Sherlock sees his brother slightly lost for words.  _It's quite a sight._

He recovers quickly though. You'd never think it to look at them, but manners were beaten into the Holmes boys until they might seem to be hardwired, and those manners rescue him now. "Miss Holmes," Mycroft says politely, inclining his head to Miri. "Miss Hooper."

Molly cocks an eyebrow at him. "It's Mrs. Holmes now," she points out. "You should know that: You were invited to the wedding."

He hadn't turned up and Sherlock suspects it was because he knew he wouldn't be welcome.  _He's a clever man, his brother._

"Actually," Miri pipes up, "it's Doctor Holmes. Mummy is head of her department at St. Bart's. That's a hospital. She likes cutting up dead people, because cutting up live ones hurts them and she doesn't like hurting them. She says it's not nice and I think she's right." The child frowns. "I don't think Daddy always agrees though."

Miri stares up at Mycroft with the preternaturally frank gaze which used to stare back from a mirror at Sherlock, and despite himself the detective smothers a smirk.  _Let's see how the Iceman does against a_ _ **real**_ _Holmes._ Mycroft has never been good with children, and it shows: At being spoken to he looks down his nose at Miri, his gaze equal parts condescending and interrogatory.

Molly's hand tightens on her daughter but the child looks back at her uncle without fear. She came out of the womb knowing herself to be the smartest being in the universe, and it would take more than her Uncle Mycroft to make her doubt it.

_Sherlock can't help but suspect that this will be Rather Good._

"Aren't you a little young to be speaking quite so much when you haven't been spoken to?" Mycroft demands, crossing his arms peremptorily.

Miri frowns. "Are you a little old to be afraid of someone speaking without having been spoken to?" she retorts, crossing her own arms in answer, and Sherlock hears Molly stifle something which sounds suspiciously like a snort.

 _That's my girl,_ he thinks.  _Both of them._

For a moment the elder Holmes grimaces and Sherlock steels himself, preparing to defend his daughter from the ranting of the fully grown adult man who seems so intimidated by her. But it doesn't happen: As quickly as Mycroft's consternation appears, it flees. A small smile quirks his mouth, exactly as it had when Sherlock displayed similar cockiness as a boy, and just like that both brothers arrive on common ground.

_They both know where they stand in this._

"She's so like you," Mycroft mutters dryly then. He looks at Molly. "God help you, Doctor Holmes: You're in for quite a busy few years."

Molly shrugs. "I knew what I was getting myself into," she says quietly. "So did her father." She smiles, ruffles her daughter's hair despite the girl's pout of embarrassment. "I wouldn't have it any other way," she adds, and Sherlock can see the miniscule nod Mycroft gives her, acknowledging that his allegations against Molly, his stated belief that she would be bad for his brother's sobriety or sanity were just that. Allegations.

They have not come to pass and that look tells Sherlock he understands that.

 _He'd better,_ Sherlock thinks darkly.  _If he wants to spend a waking moment with me or mine._

Not that that he's thinking of that now though. Instead he throws a look at Molly, eyebrows half-raised. She understands it-  _what do you think, love?_ it means- and she gives him another minute nod in answer. Puts her hand in his and squeezes. Just as it has every time since she started doing it, it feels really, really bloody  _good._ "We're going to visit Mrs. Hudson in Dartmoor now," she announces, "we can't be late, John and Mary are already there. But we're back the day after tomorrow, if you're about. What do you think, Mycroft? Do you fancy coming round to ours for a cuppa?"

The older man inclines his head politely. "I would be charmed, I'm sure."

"He's lying," Miri announces, displaying the same spectacular lack of tact her father had had in such abundance as a boy. Molly rolls her eyes heavenward. "He doesn't want to come," the girl says, "we make him nervous-"

"That you do," Mycroft says. "I will not insult the intelligence of anyone present by denying it."

For a moment he hesitates, and then the elder Holmes kneels down in front of his niece. Sets himself level with her. Sherlock rolls his eyes that he checked to make sure his suit trousers wouldn't be damaged before he did so, but Molly just smiles.

"Unfortunately, however," Mycroft is saying, "though you make me nervous, I fear I shall have to brave your company, Ms..?"

"Miri," the child announced. "Mireille Marie Holmes." The child puffs out her chest proudly as she says it and a ghost of a smile moves through Mycroft's eyes.

 _Miri was named for her paternal grandmother_.

"Quite," he says, "Ms. Mireille. You do indeed intimidate me. But I have been a good deal less than kind to your Mummy and Daddy, and I wish to make amends." He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Do you think I'm up to the challenge?"

And he shifts, lets the little one get a good look at him.

The child stares for a moment, her eyes narrowed and evaluating. She looks awfully like Molly when she does that, Sherlock can't help but think.

But then-

"I shall allow you to come to tea and see my new microscope," Miri announces with magnificent, Holmesian disdain. Her parents grin at her. "Then I shall see how you handle yourself, and whether you are nice to Mummy and Daddy." She sniffs. "If you are, you may remain. If you aren't, I shall call Auntie Sally and have you arrested." She holds out her hand to Sherlock. "But now we have a train to Dartmoor to catch, and if we're late Uncle Henry will be worried. And all the trifle will be gone. So we won't be late."

And with that she turns on her heel and- both her parents hands in hers- she heads towards platform three. Molly is grinning. Sherlock shoots his brother a chipper little wave- "Laters," he announces- And then he walks off. He knows his expression says the rest:  _Don't fuck this up, brother dearest. I'll be watching you, and so will the rest of the family._

Sherlock and Molly swing their daughter from their arms as they hustle her into the train to Grimpen.

Mycroft watches them go, he knows, but Sherlock doesn't turn to look back at his brother, and he suspects Mycroft understands.


End file.
